Operation Salvation
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Sequel to "Revenge of the Houseplants" and "Return of Hastur". Hastur must befriend Aziraphale in order to convince the angel that Crowley is out to get him.
1. Part One

**Operation Salvation  
****Author:** H.J. Bender  
**Rating:** M  
**Summary:** A follow-up to _The Revenge of the Houseplants _and _The Return of Hastur._ Hastur and Ed (the one-armed imp) ascend into the mortal realm to foil Crowley's "plan" to corrupt Aziraphale, which means befriending the angel himself and trying to convince him that Crowley is up to no good.  
**Disclaimer:** Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett own _Good Omens _and everything to do with it. I only own this fic.  
**Feedback:** Please?  
**Author's Notes:** It is advisable to have first read _The Revenge of the Houseplants_ and _The Return of Hastur (_and just about every single one of my "usual" fics) in order to get all the jokes/understand what is going on. It's a marketing ploy. I did it on purpose.

_You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you do not trust enough.  
_-Frank Crane

**Part One: In Which The Story Starts & Auto-erotica Ensues**

Hell-dwellers fall, in some cases literally, into three categories: ex-angels who were cast out of Heaven with Satan in the Very Beginning, ex-angels who joined up after the Expulsion (some of their own free acquired will), and demonic entities such as imps, goblins, gremlins, hellions et. al. who formed physical manifestations from complete wickedness.  
(_Sort of like when milk goes bad and congeals into putrid, sour clumps._)

The original Fallen were among the most powerful figures in Hell, most of them being kings, princes, dukes or other high-ranking nobility. Hastur was one of the originals and as a rule, snarked on the post-Expulsion demons who never got to experience the dreadful First Descent into the Deep. It was a form of initiation if one wished to claim a higher office, and was the undoubtedly _the_ worst possible nine consecutive days of one's existence. One were lucky if they came through all of the dimensions of Darkness and Chaos with their physical form still intact, and cognizant mental processes weren't even considered until after the shell-shock wore off.

Most of these ex-angels chose not to take the torturous tumble to Tartarus, opting instead for a more business-like approach that consisted of legal name changes, renouncing God and all His works, swearing fealty and obedience to Satan, signing allegiances in their own blood, etcetera. The veterans of course thought that this wasn't nearly brutal enough, and that anyone who went about joining Hell this way was a sopping sissy.

Crowley, as a member of the second group and being the type of slick, sauntering bastard who never really gave a damn what his superiours thought of him, was quite content with the title of Sopping Sissy if it meant avoiding nine days of unnecessary agony. After all, sticks and stones could break your bones, but names could never hurt you.  
(_Unless your name is Richard Gaye Fuchs, in which case, suicide or a witness protection programme is definitely in order_.)

The least-powerful beings of the Pit were the imps. They didn't really even have actual forms, unlike the Fallen angels; they were simply small masses of infernal energy born from evil and human suffering. New imps were popping into existence all the time, little carbon copies of one another all scampering about like mice looking for something good and virtuous to gnaw on. They were the lowest caste of Hell, the labourers and the scapegoats, the sowers of discord and the torturers of common sinners. They didn't complain about their jobs and they didn't ask for pay; their reward was the fear and chaos they helped to spawn. Indeed, the Pit would not be the place it was today without the help of these industrious, demented little fellows.

The older they were the more powerful they got, but they were never as powerful as the ex-angels. Holy objects of any calibre were extremely deadly to imps, and they stood up to heavenly creatures about as well as a paper house in a hurricane. They were essentially guinea pigs and cannon fodder as far as the Fallen were concerned, but the imps knew it was crucial to keep their masters pleased since 65 of the time they were killed by them.

One might think it would be futile for these little demons to have goals and aspirations considering their relatively brief life expectancy, but when one is bred to serve such as the imps are, the greatest possible achievement is to survive long enough to die old. It was really kind of pathetic, come to think about it.

And this is why Ed from Administration couldn't believe that his boss, Duke Hastur, had promised him a whole thousand years of asylum if he would help him succeed on some wild adventure up to earth that sounded very illegal and would probably get them both into serious trouble if anyone ever found out. Demons didn't trust other demons as a rule, this you already know; even if they did, it was only because one of them knew he could get away with murdering the other to save himself.

But Hastur had mentioned something about a really important angel and another demon, and like most imps, Ed was curious. Besides, it wasn't as if he had a choice—he'd already lost an arm. What was another limb in the long run for a chance to go out like this, on Earth of all places?

He had never been to the mortal world before and was astounded by how advanced human technology was in comparison to Hell's. He made observations about these sorts of things because, despite whatever notion one may assume concerning the denizens of Down Below, he was a creature very fascinated by electrical mechanics.

If one word could be used to describe Ed, it was geeky. It was in the fibre of his infernal make up, himself being a product of angst-ridden, reclusive computer hackers who hated socialised people, and the rage of hundreds of thousands of users worldwide who were victims of their discontent. Ed was mellower and more rational than his demonic peers, and he knew how to operate a Xerox machine. That put him ahead of Hastur as far as innovative know-how was concerned, and in this modern human world his boss probably needed an imp like Ed around, just in case he needed multiple copies of paperwork or something.

The first thing that had to be done upon arriving in central London was to equip Ed with a body, since most humans would be quite perturbed upon seeing a one-armed, two-foot tall, pointy-tailed little goblin type creature wearing a tie and vest with no pants. (Vests were _so_ early-90's.)

Hastur told him to pick a convenient person to possess so that they could hurry up and get on with it, but when Ed attempted to jump into the body of a young businessman standing on the corner, he missed and ended up diving into a woman's Chihuahua by accident.

Ed had never possessed the body of an animal before and didn't quite know how to get himself out. Hastur had been forced to commit dog-nappery and wasn't too pleased about it. Neither was the dog's owner, whose piercing shrieks of distress could have been heard by Peruvian llama farmers in the Andes.

The two demons were forced to flee the situation in order to avoid any acts that would arouse the suspicion of both their quarries and their superiours, though Ed had a difficult time keeping pace and Hastur eventually had to pick him up and carry him the rest of way.

Things weren't off to a particularly good start but at least Ed had four limbs again, and that made him quite happy.

* * *

The duke and his associate set up operations in an old abandoned textile warehouse that happened to be equidistant between the Principality's Soho bookshop and Crowley's posh, uptown flat. There, they set to work devising a master plan to foil the serpent's slippery "scheme" to "Fell" the angel. It took them three days and three nights to formulate anything that could be of use, and then spent the next three months waiting for all of the supplies to be gathered together.

They used the lax time during this waiting period to keenly observe both the angel and the demon in their daily lives, discovering patterns in their routines, odd habits, peculiar quirks, anything that might be of use. Hastur, as the primary instigator of this operation, did his best to reserve his powers in anticipation for the Final Showdown, and spent much of his time locked in the warehouse at night, exercising occult rituals to build himself up while Ed barked encouragements.

It wasn't quite as inspiring as _Rocky IV_, but it was close enough.

During his time spent away from the home base, Ed found that it was easier to escape notice as an animal rather than a human, and that being a dog was actually quite enjoyable. People were always nice to him, if he were nice to them and refrained from biting their ankles (which, he discovered, was a nearly insatiable urge). He learned that if he acted pathetic and whimpered that he could get just about anything he wanted, everything from being cuddled against the bountiful bosom of a sexy young blonde to free food that bested anything Hell had to offer. He was particularly fond of marshmallows.

The cars and lorries were frightening at first, but Ed soon learned the significance of stoplights and crosswalks, and passers-by remarked how adorable it was to see a Chihuahua standing patiently with a group of people on the sidewalk and waiting for the cross lights to change. He hitched rides on busses and taxis and even a motorbike once, and soon the imp had become very comfortable in urban London. It was better than Dis, at least.

Keeping tabs on Crawly and his angel friend was terribly easy since Ed was small and could creep about in very close vicinity without being seen. He eavesdropped on their conversations and brought back information to Hastur, who was so pleased with how smoothly things were going that he eventually (and grudgingly) granted Ed's single wish and went out and got a doggy sweater for him.

Chihuahuas were susceptible to the cold as it was, and coming from a nice hot place like Hell made it even worse when faced with the biting chill of a wet night in March.

* * *

"Ed, my fine, flea-bitten comrade," said Hastur to the dog one evening, "tonight is the night we put Operation Salvation into motion."

"Oh boy! What're we gonna do?" Ed yipped excitedly, springing off of the 19th century sofa that the duke had conjured as part of a Victorian living room set to make the warehouse more habitable.

Hastur grinned maliciously as from his seat in the dark red wingback chair.

"Crawly has business to attend in Amsterdam. He'll be leaving tonight and staying away for two whole weeks. And what is it that we have learned from his prolonged excursions from Angleland?"

"Ooh, I know this! When Crawly returns he and the angel always dine out someplace fancy and binge drink for hours afterwards."

"Precisely."

"But what's that got to do with starting the plans tonight?"

"Everything. We're counting on a domino effect, see. Crawly will be out of his home by ten o'clock and on a flying machine to Deutschland. Step one of our plot begins there."

"Where? Doysh land?"

"No you imbecile, the serpent's quarters," snapped Hastur, "and that confounded automobile of his."

He reached over to take a black velvet drawstring pouch from the small table beside his chair. A heart-shaped skull was emblazoned onto one side, and he swung it back and forth from his finger like a pendulum.

Ed stared at it worriedly, bulbous eyes appearing to bug out even farther. "Is that what I _think_ it is, boss?"

"Oh yes," the duke replied with malevolent darkness in his voice. "It's the key to our victory."

* * *

_A Fortnight & Five Days Later_

Crowley wasn't going to step foot into Amsterdam or another coffee house for at least a decade, he decided that of his own free will the moment he was out of the city and en route to the airport. The smell had followed him all the way from Frankfurt Main to Heathrow and was so strong that he was actually stopped and inspected several times by airport security. Luckily for Crowley it wasn't against the law to reek of marijuana so long as he didn't have any on his person or was rendered impaired.  
(_Though if the authorities would have tested him they would have been disturbed to discover that he didn't actually have blood at all, but liquid hemp with bits of blood mixed in. Crowley himself had been forced to stay a few days longer than anticipated simply because the reefer had refused to run out._)

After several suspicious looks from security, he found his way through the crowded terminal and caught the Heathrow Express back into central London. Needless to say he got even more suspicious looks from the passengers, and also a seat by himself. Of course, Crowley would have gotten one of those regardless of the way he smelled, but he began to feel just the tiniest bit self-conscious at the unwanted attention, and scowling back wasn't helping very much, either.

Whenever he went out of the country for any length of time, Crowley always left the Bentley at a medium-security garage for safe keeping, even though the fact that being a demon lent him the peace of mind that no sane, God-fearing human being would dare to lay a finger on his precious car. No need for alarms or special locks, that was just the way it was.

Or how it used to be, at least. It was a shame that such people were growing fewer these days, and Crowley was almost tempted to chide his associate into doing a better job of putting the fear of Hell into people, since often those who didn't believe in God neither believed in Satan, and what could a respectable demon expect from attitudes like _that_?

So Crowley kept the Bentley in a garage just to be cautious. He had also learned enough about psychology back in the mid-twentieth century to know that he was probably exhibiting signs of aberrant paranoia brought on by a fierce love of his possessions, which made him a little sick, to be brutally honest. Demons didn't love, it was common knowledge, but lusting after an automobile didn't exactly make Crowley feel any better than loving an automobile in the first place. He at last decided that he had simply grown so used to the Bentley that it had become more or less a part of who he was, and that it was perfectly acceptable to love himself in every selfish, egotistical aspect. That line of thought cheered him up greatly.

The train arrived at Paddington not a moment too soon and Crowley disembarked, much to the collective relief of the other occupants who were probably more concerned by the fact that the young man "didn't seem quite right" rather than if he "smelled like a hippie". From there he walked the short distance to the high-end, multi-level parking garage, tossing his keys into the air and catching them as he went.

He flashed his exclusive membership card at the security guard in the kiosk and strode whistling to B-Level, Block 4, Space 19. The Bentley seemed to snap to attention as its master approached and Crowley smiled, trailing his hand along the perpetually perfect and smooth, shining black finish in an very friendly gesture of greeting.

"Miss me?" he asked.

The Bentley didn't reply, but Crowley knew well enough.

He opened the door and slid into the driver's seat with familiar ease, tossed his coat on the passenger's seat, and then suddenly paused. The car appeared to sigh -it didn't of course, cars couldn't breathe- and relax, and the demon could _feel_ the comfortable warmth of tender appreciation as the seat seemed to liquefy against his body, holding him gently and lovingly.

"What is this?" he said beneath his breath.

Crowley's outer senses registered that the leather was cold and hard, but his mind told him precisely otherwise; it was on sheer impulse that he closed his eyes and suddenly recalled that summer in 1956 when he had, for no real reason, driven out into the middle of nowhere in the English countryside, parked on a grassy hill, and fallen asleep in the backseat with the top dropped down. Just because he could.

He remembered the sun on his face, the warm, pliable leather seat as soft as a down mattress beneath his back, the cloud-speckled blue sky up above, the sweet scent of grass in the air. The breeze was clean and cool, and he had slept for hours. When finally he opened his eyes again he was gazing up at a million billion stars, all gleaming silently as if watching over him and his Bentley.

His Bentley. He had never known such pleasure could be received from a heap of gears and dials on four wheels. But somehow on that day, he loved it. He _loved_ it.

And now, in this cold, dark garage in a jungle of concrete and iron, Crowley wanted to go back to that day. He _needed_ to go back to that day, right now, right here, and nothing was going to stop him.

Eyes opened once again. He still held the keys gripped tightly in his fist. There would be impressions in his palm later. He drew in a short breath and reconsidered starting the engine with his powers. Not this time. _He_ wanted to do it. Manually.

Crowley opened his hand and, with a jingle, slid the key into the ignition. It felt good. Why oh why did it feel this good? He took the key out and did it again, more slowly this time, feeling every familiar tooth on the metal surface click into place.

It made his head swim. He loosened his tie and undid the first few buttons of his shirt. _Why is it so suddenly warm?_ he wondered vaguely. But he didn't really care why. It felt wonderful all the same.

He turned the key in the ignition and the car rumbled to life, purring and sending little vibrations into his seat. He began to breathe heavily.

He sat back and placed his hand on the familiar leather knob of the gear stick, clutching it firmly. His lips trembled. He loosened his grip and slid his fist up and down the long metal shaft slowly, staring at his movements with relaxed fascination. Oh, it felt splendid to do this, almost as if he were doing it to himself. Every inch of his skin was prickling, each hair standing on end as if the barest amount of electricity were running over his body.

"Oh… oh-" Crowley panted softly, feeling his senses dance off into that swirling grey area between sleep and wake. "What do you… want me to…"

And then the lights went out.

* * *

A rhythmic tapping on the glass brought Crowley out of a dreamless state and into the dull coldness of semi-cognizance. He gasped, and his breath showed in a small misty cloud from his lips. He was positively freezing. And it was dark.. The only illumination came from a lighthouse on the shore of his consciousness, guiding him from a tumultuous sea of Void and into the safe harbours of-

The security guard tapped his torch against the window of the Bentley, and Crowley shot back into reality with fearsome speed. He sat up. He was completely naked but for his wristwatch, and lying on the backseat. His clothes were strewn over the seats and on the floor. Even his sunglasses were off.

"Everything all right in there?" the guard inquired.

Crowley snatched his shirt from off the floor and winced as the torchlight shined into his eyes. Dilated pupils shrank down into tiny slits and he quickly put his hand up to cover both the light and the proof of his inhumanity.

"You wasted or something?" the guard asked again.

"Ah, just an headache," Crowley rattled. "Fever. I've got the flu. Thought I'd, ah, have a bit of lie down before driving, you know."

"Shouldn't drive when you're stoned. S'bad idea."

"I'm not stoned."

"Then what's that smell?"

"I just got back from Amsterdam. Look, why am I having to explain myself to you? I pay your salary, now shove off."

The security guard made a disgruntled face, but lowered his light and walked away. Crowley sighed in relief and sought out the rest of his scattered clothes, putting them all back on in a few seconds, sunglasses included.

The Bentley wasn't running. He was almost certain that he had started it, and manually. And then what? Had he blacked out? What was going on here? Had he just imagined the whole ordeal?

Crowley made a strange face as he crawled into the front seat. _Why is everything so damned sticky?_ he wondered. And what was that fleshy, musky scent hovering under the odourous cloak of weed? Then the truth struck him like lightning when he realised: it was _his_ sticky.

The horror only mounted when he discovered that it was all over the interior of the Bentley—seats front and back, dash, doors, floor, windows, even the canvas top.

"I had sex in my car," he murmured to himself. "I… I had sex _with_ my car."

Crowley didn't know how it had happened, but it had. It _had_ to have. What else could possibly explain him waking up, disoriented and nude in the backseat, with a floor-to-ceiling paint job of his own… his own-

He didn't want to think about it. No, this was all just some kind of pot-induced mind trip. Two litres of Elmer's glue exploded inside his car. He had taken off his clothes to air out the smell and fallen asleep. A bad batch of ganja. Yes, that was it. Everything was perfectly explanatory.

But even Crowley didn't believe himself.

The Bentley started up with a growl and sped out of the garage with infernal speed towards west London.  
(_Precisely 78 mph._)

* * *

The first thing he did when he walked into his flat was strip completely naked and toss his clothes into the oven. Disposing of unwanted items using hellfire could be quite messy, which was why Crowley always preferred to use his oven as an incinerator. It wasn't as if he had any other use for it, anyway.

There came a small "fwoomph" and then the cannabis-scented garments were no more.

His houseplants (now an exclusive collection of various speciaes of angel wings) bashfully bowed before their master, revealed in all his unclothed glory, as he stalked by them and went straight into the lav. There came the sound of running water and rummaging within the cabinets.

Several minutes later, Crowley shut off the tap and sank himself into the hot water of the ornate, claw-footed porcelain bathtub. He surfaced a few moments later and slicked his dripping black hair off of his forehead. And then, taking up a bar of expensive soap and a loofah, set to work.

Crowley didn't bathe often, chiefly because he there was no need when cleanliness was only a thought away, but in rare cases it simply had to be done. Nothing in his power seemed capable of ridding the organic odour from his person, and at last he decided that maybe a scorching, human-style bath would help to rid him of his human-acquired smell.

He would have preferred an authentic blood bath like the ones customary of his people back in the good old days, but virgin blood was hard enough to find in the rapidly declining morality of modern times, let alone enough to fill a bathtub. Crowley vaguely recalled some high-end "health" spa Down Below that had a nice virgin blood-soak-and-sauna package that took years off the old hide, but only exclusive members were allowed such privileges and thus the top nobility were the only ones who had that enviable, glowing, infernal complexion.

Crowley sawed away at his chest with the loofah and tried to remember the last time he had been forced to scrub the stink off of himself. It was ages ago, at least a century or more. Ah, yes, 1735. Some idiotic woman in Paris had practically doused him with a vat of the most vile-smelling cologne he had ever had the displeasure of catching whiff of. He might as well have been sprayed by a skunk for all the trouble it caused him; he had been forced to burn his entire wardrobe and soak his skin in everything from mud to crushed tomatoes and vinegar. It was weeks before he got the smell out of his skin, and it took even longer to wash out of his hair. He had seriously considered scalping himself or purposely getting discorporated just to get a new body. It was an awful experience, truly nasty and bothersome.

But, he also remembered with a flush of warmth, it had been quite enjoyable to lounge about in extravagant Turkish baths on a regular basis, wearing nothing more than a towel, or even less.

He finished lathering his upper half, rinsed, and set to work on the rest.

Crowley wouldn't go so far as to say that he was a nudist, but every once in a while he found it extremely satisfying to spend some quality time in his own skin, to feel liberated and unhindered by clumsy, weighty threads. He liked clothes, don't get him wrong, they were fantastic and he preferred to wear them rather than not, but perhaps it was a characteristic inherent in his serpentine scales that made him so comfortable with being naked.

He began to scrub more gently as the loofah travelled down his slick, soapy belly.

And being a man -or at least a man-shaped creature- of mortal temper always had its advantages. There were fascinating accessories and gadgetries that were an endless source of personal entertainment regardless of basic functions.

When driven into manual cleaning processes all that time ago, Crowley had finally decided to take the opportunity to, on his own, explore everything that being in a man's body had to offer, and was rather surprised to discover that there actually was some truth to that Newton chap's so-called "scientific law" about every action having an equal and opposite reaction.

Afterwards he had wondered why he'd never thought to try out all the bells and whistles of his mortal raiment sooner, when there was such fun and curious states of hedonistic delirium to be had. Much debauchery ensued from that time henceforth until Crowley had at last worn out the novelty and resumed using his body for more regular activities, such as walking and talking and committing various despicable acts of soul-tainting transgressions against mankind.

But he hadn't forgotten those bygone bath days, and right now the pleasantly warm feeling in the pit of his belly was going to make sure that he never did.

Crowley suddenly awoke from his meditative reverie to find himself already out of the metaphorical harbour and flying at full sail, top mast, out to sea.

"God bless it," he swore softly.

That was the thing about mortal bodies. If you didn't pay close attention to your thoughts they'd always take things the wrong way and leave you in a very uncomfortable situation. And after having to wipe himself off of the whole interior of the Bentley, Crowley didn't exactly feel like giving his recalcitrant flesh the satisfaction of getting the better of him a second time (even if the Bentley had been the one "bringing it" in the first case, so to speak).

He set his jaw and thought, _go away_.

Nothing changed.

_I don't feel like it._

The good ship Venus failed to agree that Crowley didn't feel like it, and hoisted the Jolliest of Rogers in bold defiance.  
(_A subtle nod to the classic work of fine poetic literature known as "Frigging in the Rigging"_.)

Curse this body and its bloody mechanics. Why wasn't it listening? It had always listened before. Had he lost control of it somehow? It must be the weed. It had messed him up good, and now he couldn't even make his own body obey commands.

_Stop it, _he ordered.

But it was so tall and admirable.

_Not now. I don't want to._

It would be a terrible shame to let a beauty like that fade away rather than go out in glory with a tremendous bang. A real pity.

"The hell with this," Crowley muttered and, abandoning the loofah, commandeered the craft and proceeded to give the deck a good swabbing. He was very thorough and straightforward, mincing no details in his effort to bring down the main mast. His own resentment somehow seemed to fuel a climatic typhoon such as he had never experienced before, and in those final swashbuckling moments it was a rush to abandon ship, every seaman for himself. The crew shot into the violent waves of the rolling, merciless sea and were lost. A few moments later the storm subsided and the good ship Venus sank beneath the waves.

Crowley sighed, leaned his head back on the edge of the tub and put a hand over his eyes. It had been an especially excellent sinking, he conceded, but he hoped that it wouldn't happen again for a while. He had things to do and places to-

"Shit. Aziraphale."

How could he have possibly forgotten?

He pulled the drain plug and stepped out of the bath, toweled off, and went to find something loose to wear. Just in case. He painted himself with body spray (not that he was trying to impress anyone, he just wanted to be 100 certain he was rid of that telltale scent), dressed quickly, and grabbed his keys. On his way out he passed by the decorative mirror hanging on the living room wall and paused, staring at his reflection.

Even with his hair still damp and a face that was tired and dark from jetlag and juana, he thought he was looking extremely hot tonight.

Crowley was admittedly narcissistic, but never to the extent of doing a double-take at his own reflection. No wonder he had been acting so strangely. His body knew a good deal when it saw one.

"Fuck you," he muttered to his reflection, slipped on his shades, and walked out.

* * *

It was absurd of him to expect Aziraphale to be patiently waiting when he arrived at the angel's Soho bookshop, but it was even more absurd to find the shop empty at this hour of night and a note on the counter addressed to the demon that read:

_**C,**_

_I don't know where you've gotten to and I don't frankly care. You should run off without telling me more often. I have enjoyed the peace and quiet immensely without you around to aggravate me. If I ever see you again you've got some explaining to do._

_A._

Crowley scoffed, crumpled the note in his fist and tossed it behind the counter. He sulked a moment, tapping his finger on the polished wood and wishing Aziraphale were here now so he could make a snarky comment and slam the door on his way out. After much consideration he finally decided the best thing would be to pretend as if he had never been at the shop in the first place, and he hopped over the counter to fetch the note and restore it to its original state.

It was only after he kneeled down to retrieve it that he noticed three other similar crumpled pieces of paper lying nearby. Curious as always, Crowley unfurled each one and realised that the scathing script he had previously read was originally part of a limited edition series that had probably started two weeks ago.

They were, in order as far as the demon could discern, as follows:

_**Dear Crowley,**_

_Sorry you caught me while I was out. I received an urgent business call yesterday and had to travel to Calais. With luck I'll return either Friday night or early Saturday morning. Ring me if I don't see you first._

_Yours,  
__Alice_

_P.S. Stay out of the wine cabinet. There's a bottle of Bordeaux that I'm saving for our next night out and I'll know if you've tampered with it._

_**Crowley,**_

_You just missed me. Will be back shortly. If you come by later this afternoon I'll be here. Hang about if you're not too busy._

_Az_

_**Anthony,**_

_Where on Earth are you? If you're reading this, don't leave. I'll be here shortly._

_Aziraphale_

Crowley sighed heavily and stood to his feet, feeling annoyed, offended, and the tiniest bit remorseful. But mostly annoyed and offended. Since when did he have to run his entire schedule by Aziraphale for approval before going somewhere? Where did the angel get off trying to tie him down like that, as if they were bloody married or something equally ridiculous?

Crowley made a mental note to remind Aziraphale that he was a demon after all, bound to nothing and nobody (at least on Earth), and still free to do _what_ever he pleased to _whom_ever he pleased _when_ever he pleased _where_ver he pleased. And no meddlesome, encroaching angel was going to slap a ball and chain to his ankle, by G- Sa- the power vested in him.

The demon passed his hand over the wrinkled paper of the more recent letter like an iron, smoothing it out to its perfect crispness once again. He mulled on the audacity of his associate as he stared at the handwritten ink. And then he frowned.

It was unusually messy penmanship for Aziraphale, and the letters were shaky. He must have been very distraught when he had written it.

For a single moment, Crowley imagined the angel scribbling this final message for him, his eyes shadowed by his furrowed brow, nostrils flared slightly, his lips pulled thin with muted indignation as his pen scratched noisily across the paper with haphazard speed. Maybe there were even a few tendrils of wavy blond hair falling into his eyes, just enough to make him look like a cape-clad madman sitting at a pipe organ and hammering out Bach's _Toccata and Fugue in D Minor_.

Crowley was unable to restrain a murmur of laughter in his throat at the thought of Aziraphale pulling a _Phantom of the Opera_ in the back room whenever he was away.

That was the thing about Aziraphale. He could never stay angry with him for more than a few minutes. Holding grudges was the angel's job. We're like elephants, he had said once. We never forget.

And then Crowley had made a catty reply about angels and elephants with the words "your", "fat" and "arse" in too close a proximity of one another in the same sentence, and Aziraphale had promptly decked his halls with boughs of knuckles and laid him in such a way that the demon would prefer to never to be laid again: on the floor with a reeling head and a bruised jaw.

Crowley sauntered into the back room and sat on the comfortable sofa with the three old notes still in hand.

If he had only known Aziraphale had a mean right hook, he never would have said anything about Fat Bottom Angels. That was nearly two thousand years ago, if Crowley's memory served him correctly. What a poncy, prudent prat the Principality was back then. Of course, being immortal beings, little had changed between them since then. The only difference was that they had agreed that taking literal stabs at one another's mortal corporations was getting them nowhere, and that perhaps working together might be more rewarding than keeping track of how many times one managed to snuff the other. It had appeared to work quite well for both parties thus far; verbal debates were far better than physical ones, and it was much less awkward to get off track in conversation rather than to pause in the middle of a duel to the death to ask again what it was they were fighting about.

The demon and the angel had both concurred that it was a sensible, mature solution on their respective behalves, and that if only their superiours would adopt a more diplomatic method of negotiating with one another then perhaps everyone, especially mankind, would benefit from it.

If only.

Crowley stretched out on the sofa and put his boots up on one arm, if only for the reason that he knew Aziraphale would kill him if he saw him doing it. He held the crinkled notes to his chest as he stared up at the ceiling and thought.

_Why am I still here?_ he wondered vaguely. _I don't want anything to do with him when he's pissed off at me. I must be suicidal._

He finally reached the conclusion that he had nowhere else to be, that he was shagged, fagged and jetlagged, and he wanted to eat someplace nice and have a drink with a friend afterwards. He wanted this enough that he was willing to face Aziraphale's temper, even if he had to apologise to him. It was almost madness, Crowley having to beg pardon for something he wasn't even aware of doing.

_Some demon _I _am,_ he thought disdainfully. _Whipped by an angel. I'm not whipped. I just don't want to be on his bad side._

No one in their right mind would, for that matter. Few aside from Crowley had ever had the pleasure of witnessing the full extent of Aziraphale's wrath. It made for quite a spectacle but the angel only rarely ever let himself go like that, which was fortunate for any poor creature caught in the immediate vicinity. Crowley himself had been the target the angel's discontent on a small number of occasions in the past, and while the demon wasn't a fair sight to behold when riled, it was nothing in comparison to a righteously angry Aziraphale.

_The bastard,_ he thought with a languid smile. _But that's why I like him so much._

Gradually Crowley began to sense the first feeling of peace and calm since he had gotten back to England, and it wasn't much longer before he was fast asleep and breathing gently through his nose with a slight whistling. He slept soundly with the air of one who had been blessed with a guiltless conscience, and while Crowley certainly didn't possess such a thing, he slept as if he did.

And he looked almost innocent.

Almost.

* * *

"…and then the Baby Bear said, Someone has been sleeping in _my_ bed too, and she's still in it."

Crowley grunted and batted open his eyes, wincing when he realised that his sunglasses had been removed. He heard a familiar chuckle and turned his head to see Aziraphale sitting in a chair pulled up to the sofa's side, swinging Crowley's shades by one temple idly. He had his legs crossed, leaning forward slightly with one elbow on his knee and his chin resting in his hand as he stared at the demon with slight amusement.

"_Guten Morgen_," said Aziraphale, "_oder, guten Nacht_."

Crowley sat up blearily. "Mmh, _wie lang haben dir-" _Pause. Blink. "-been sitting there? And give me those."

The angel handed the sunglasses back to their owner and said, "Not very long. Enjoy your stay in Amsterdam, my dear?"

Crowley slipped his shades back on and frowned. "How do you know I was in Amsterdam?"

"Your return flight tickets are sticking out of the glovebox of your car, which is currently blocking the hydrant out front, I might add," he said, "and you still smell like C.S."

Crowley blessed out loud. "I incinerated my entire suit."

"The car must be holding the scent."

The demon made another dissatisfied grunt and resumed his horizontal position on the couch.

"I see you found my notes," said Aziraphale, nodding to the pieces of paper that Crowley was still holding.

"What, these? Yeah. Lot better than that last one, I must say."

"Ah. Read that one also?"

"Yeah. You still wish I was gone so you could enjoy the peace and quiet a bit longer?"

"Perhaps," Aziraphale admitted, then added with a modest smirk, "but I would rot of boredom before long anyway."

"So you're not angry with me then?"

"In your dreams, Crowley. I'm furious with you, but that doesn't mean I have to be so bloody minded about it. Besides, I'd like very much to know how you plan on making it up to me."

"How does gluttony and boozing sound?"

"You mean dinner and drinks?"

Crowley shrugged. "Same difference."

"Sounds smashing."

"Oh, we will be by the end of the night."

"Well do hurry, would you? All of the nice restaurants are going to be closed soon."

Crowley stood up and grabbed his coat. "Not for us, they won't."

* * *

"…and that's really all that happened," he concluded, finishing off the rest of the lamb _souvlaki_ and setting down his fork.

Aziraphale daintily dabbed a napkin to his mouth and took another sip of Vidiano. "My my," he said with airy sarcasm, "you certainly have a piquant for the bizarre, old boy. I daresay I've never heard of the words 'industrial-fuck-metal' used to describe even German music, but if it's anything like what you've told me, I'm certain that you've made the members of Chemical DeathChrist very happy with their record deal."  
(_A fictitious band in this story but not altogether deviant from the standard names of goth-industrial groups_.)

"Oh, they're not as bad as you think. It's all stage appearance, really. Very friendly, generous people."

"Ah." The angel nodded. "They didn't charge you for the marijuana, did they."

"No. They were _very_ generous."

"Honestly, Crowley. You're over six thousand years old and lighting up as if you were a junk-rock teenage anarchist."

"That's _punk_-rock, angel."

"I know, you silly nit. I was making a point."

"Taken." The demon rested one of his well-formed cheekbones against his palm and gazed at Aziraphale with an unglamourously whimsical smile. "Now then," he said, "_do_ tell about your undoubtedly wild and stirring adventure in Calais. But not too much excitement! I've a faint heart, you know."

A napkin flew across the table and landed on his face. He chuckled and tossed it aside.

Aziraphale grudgingly grinned and threaded his fingers together, elbows unceremoniously resting on the tabletop. "_Well_," he started, and then proceeded to divulge to his not-quite-so-significant other the business matters he had accomplished in France. When he had adjourned his recount, the two man-shaped creatures reached the conclusion that they had yet again come to a nice equal balance in the end, and that everything as defined by the terms of their Arrangement had been conducted accordingly and successfully.

"To wiles stirred," said Aziraphale, raising his wine glass.

"And wiles thwarted," said Crowley, and clinked their glasses together.

They shared a chocolate _galaktoboureko_ for dessert and finished the rest of the wine by one o'clock. Aziraphale thanked the Greek Garden staff for staying open so late (even if they had all been compelled by divine or occult powers) and Crowley even left a tip, and not just one of his spiteful half quid tips, either. Aziraphale saw but pretended he hadn't because he knew Crowley got huffy and defencive when caught being charitable. But he gave the demon's knee a gentle pat once they had started on their way back to Soho, and that really said it all, everything from 'I saw that, you benevolent rascal' to 'I'm glad you're here with me, dear chap'.

But everything wasn't warm and fuzzy on Crowley's end, unless it was concerning the state of his mind at the moment, though the words 'hot' and 'blurry' would be wholly more accurate. He managed to conceal these blustery inner thoughts by feigning smiles and making small talk and pretending to be interested in what Aziraphale had to say, but that voice in the back of his head that he had been able to suppress for countless centuries had begun rapping at the door again, and it had been growing more insistent during the course of the evening until it had reached the point of harassment.

It wasn't a nice voice, and it was saying things that Crowley didn't like at all. Well, he _did_ like what it was saying, but he didn't _want_ to like what it was saying. There were certain things that even demons knew were wrong, big red lines that were laid down and marked DO NOT CROSS AT X-MAS OR EVER, but that voice was telling him to go for it, egging him on, tempting him, if you will (if you can withstand the irony of that assumption).

And deep down inside him, perhaps not too far from where a tiny spark lived alone in the overwhelming darkness, Crowley felt truly awful.

* * *

"Aren't you coming in, dear?"

"Nnh," the demon fidgeted. "I think I'd… it'd be best if I went home."

"I thought you wanted to stay for drinks?" Aziraphale lingered with his hand on the door latch as the Bentley idled in front of the bookstore. "I still have that Bordeaux I've been saving. Or we can shoot Amaretto Flames and get devastated if you prefer something more exciting."

"It was a nice evening." Crowley smiled wearily. "I'd like to remember it in the morning."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, positive. I'm just. Still just a bit jetlagged and need to catch up on some sleep."

"You can always sleep here if you don't feel like driving back tonight," the angel offered kindly. "I've got that upstairs room, and you know _mi sofa es su sofa_-"

"Azir-" Crowley began sharply and then shut his mouth, tightened his hands on the wheel and lowered his voice to a dark murmur. "Please don't make this more difficult that it already is."

The angel frowned, perplexed. "Make what more difficult? Are you feeling all right, Crowley? You look unwell."

"I'm fine. Probably the weed. Just want to get some sleep."

"Well," Aziraphale said a trifle despondently, "all right then. If you insist."

He stepped out of the Bentley and shut the door, then leaned in through the window.

"Sweet dreams," he said softly.

Crowley swallowed dryly and did his greatest impression of a granite statue to date. "Thanks," he said, "but I don't need them."

Aziraphale looked offended. Then Crowley reached up and pulled his sunglasses down to the end of his nose, and gazed at the angel without a spoken word. And then Aziraphale didn't look so offended anymore.

He stepped back from the kerb and watched the Bentley pull away with a rumble and vanish into the night like a gleaming black phantom.

* * *

Not far away, a tall man in a dark coat was walking his relatively tiny dog down the street at this ungodly hour of the night. It certainly was ungodly, and not just because the dog turned its head towards its owner and said, "Why didn't he stay? It didn't happen like it should have!" in a raspy, high-pitched voice.

"Patience, Ed," replied Hastur smoothly, gazing at the shop front with a frighteningly collected expression for a murderous cretin. "Just give him time. It'll happen sooner or later. Now come on." He gave the leash a tug. "We've got more work to do."

* * *

Crowley sank down onto his bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. He felt as if he had been running a low-grade fever all night, one that only worsened when he arrived at his flat; while stripping down to his skin seemed like a good idea, he was aware that whatever it was that had been in his system earlier was still in there, and even demons knew when to exercise a little restraint in the matters of self-indulgence. The clothes would have to stay on for tonight.

Crowley grabbed a nearby pillow and clutched it to his chest, folding himself about it in a foetal position which, while certainly not an inherent reflex in the early beginnings of his life, felt somehow appropriate given the current state of his mental and physical being.

"Lord I will never smoke again," he moaned, then buried his face into the pillow and closed his eyes.

A few moments later he was breathing softly at regular intervals, a sure sign that sleep had overtaken him. But during the still hours of the night he twitched and jerked occasionally without waking, made quiet noises in the back of his throat, whimpers and groans that betrayed the presence of fitful dreams stirring the dark of his subconscious.

_**TBC in Part Two!**_


	2. Part Two

**Part Two: In Which Aziraphale Loses His Rationality & Hastur's Plan Changes**

Aziraphale was sipping coffee and flipping pages when the morning mail dropped through the slot in his front door. Detaching himself from one of the twenty-seven international newspapers he subscribed to, he walked over and collected the pile from the floor, filing through bills and credit card offers until he happened upon a strangely coloured envelope.

The angel frowned, examining it more closely. No return address. Odd seal. Curious handwritten calligraphy. It looked like an Official Letter at first, and for a second Aziraphale felt his stomach drop to the soles of his soul. But then he read the front:

_Ozzi R. Fel  
__42 & ½ CXR  
__London  
__WC2H0NE _

He breathed an unnecessary sigh of relief. If it were something from Heaven they'd have used his full title, which was rather embarrassing, particularly if they sent packages that he had to collect at the post office. He recalled the last incident where a nosy postal employee had nettled him with questions concerning proper recipient identification until at last the angel had been forced to explain that 'His Ethereal Cardinal Highness Prince Azirafael of the Second District, Europe' was the sender's idea of a humiliating joke. The post woman had given him his package and then told everyone at the office about it. Aziraphale hasn't stepped foot in the building since.

He opened the envelope carefully and unfolded the letter within. It was printed on very nice antiqued paper, and it appeared to be handwritten by the same person who wrote the address on the envelope. It read:

_To Whom it Doth Concern,_

_This letter written grim  
__Is to warn thee of the danger  
__As though growest fond of him._

_He might appear benign  
__But he cannot feign for long;  
__Be wary of his guiles  
__Ere he leadeth thee to wrong._

_Recallest thou of Caesar,  
__And also noble Brutus  
__Whom betrayed his friendship  
__As was done to Christ by Judas._

_Thou cannot mendeth him,  
__Thou cannot change his ways  
__For in him lieth darkness  
__And his path he never strays._

_His greatest wile cometh soon  
__He'll bare his soul to thee  
__So keepeth close thy friends  
__But closer enemies._

_For better to be cautious  
__Than to join him where he lies:  
__In Void and utter Chaos  
__Where the Fallen never shine._

_Take these words upon thy heart,  
__Spare not death for worse a fate  
__And perhaps you'll see the light again._

_Yours in Confidence,  
__D.H._

Aziraphale lowered the letter and stood very still for a long time, trying to decide whether he ought to laugh, comment on the poetic composition, try to ignore it, or be very, very worried. Somehow or another he managed all four, each at different times of course. The laughter came first, being that it was the angel's initial reaction to any sort of troubling news. Then he reread it again and was rather impressed by the overall creativity of the content, even though it was a bit amateurish and the metre was a mish-mash of odd rhythms. Then he placed it on the counter and tried to forget about it for the next six hours as he went about his daily business. By seven o'clock that evening, he was a few short steps away from the living definition of a nervous wreck.

He slowly paced the floor of his bookshop and tried to approach the matter from a collected, rational standpoint. Perhaps it was merely a jape of some sort, Crowley trying to get back at him for all those insensitive notes he had written. But that was nonsense; they patched the incident over dinner like they always did and now it was behind them. Wasn't it?

Aziraphale didn't know anyone with the initials D.H. It had to be Crowley then. He was probably still sore about being chided via ink pen and was doing his best to make the angel fret himself into a moult. But why the warning? Why the seriousness? Crowley wasn't a poet. He wasn't even eloquent. Gaudy and pretentious maybe, but never eloquent.

Bugger it, he finally decided. With a brief burst of golden fire, the letter on the counter disintegrated into a pile of sparkling twinkles that quickly faded away.

Aziraphale straightened his collar and combed his fingers through his hair, composing himself once more.

"Right then," he told himself crisply, "that's that."

He resolved to purge the letter from his mind completely and think of it no more, and if Crowley came round acting as if he were up to something, the angel would just pretend that he had never received it in the first place. _That ought to put a lid on that boiling ego of his_, he mused smugly.

* * *

_Three Days Later_

Three days had passed, and Aziraphale had seen neither hide nor scale of Crowley. He began to worry, but only in the pettiest, most frivolous way that one may worry. It was a waste of time fretting about a demon of all creatures, especially _that_ one. He was undoubtedly sleeping off the side effects of being in Amsterdam for well over a fortnight.

_I hope it made him sick_, Aziraphale thought with contempt quite unsuitable for a being of his standing, but the fact that this was a demon he was thinking about made it perfectly appropriate.

Banishing Crowley to the back burner of his mind, the angel closed shop that morning and proceeded to the political conference he was scheduled to attend. Though he greatly disliked the dealings of government bureaucracies these days (he very nearly managed to nod off on several occasions), it was in the job description of being a Principality and there was simply no getting out of it. At least it wasn't a large part of his regular routine, otherwise he feared he'd be forced to switch to caffeinated coffee, which was something he'd rather sell his feathers for souvenirs at the Vatican than do.

As was his custom, Aziraphale sat on the bench at the corner and waited for the 8:45 bus to roll through. He glanced at his pocket watch, sighed, and picked up the remains of that morning's newspaper from where it lay scattered on the ground underneath the bench, deciding that if he were going to wait he ought to at least make himself useful by disposing of some litter. He was fully prepared to toss it into the nearby trash bin when the front page headline caught his eye:

**BETRAYED  
**_Treason exposed in scandalous  
__affair between opposing political  
__representatives.  
_High-ranking government official  
faces expulsion from party. Sources  
say downfall was preventable.

The angel hadn't felt such a shockwave of icy dread roll over him since that occasion when he tumbled into the Thames in 1716 and went straight through the ice. It was not only the chaotic ramifications of this political blitzkrieg that so concerned him, nor just the possibility that it had something to do with the meeting he scheduled this morning with these very officials, but the eerie way the headlines alluded to a particular Arrangement that could very well be the consequences faced if certain Authorities discovered its existence.  
(_He never mentioned this blunder to Crowley; Aziraphale could only bear that dreadful "Chubby Chubby Cherubim" taunt so many times in his immortal life without going spare on the demon's corporation._)

Aziraphale stuffed the paper in the waste bin and wiped his hands on his jacket. They were shaking. He wiped them on his pants next, rubbing off the invisible grime that had dirtied them deeper than his mortal skin.

_You're being preposterous,_ he thought to himself. _Stop overreacting._

The bus squealed to a stop and the angel gratefully stepped on, taking an empty seat near the back to clear his head and prepare an oratory to give in light of these recent events. His mind was wandering sooner than he had intended, and Aziraphale ended up staring out of the window at the grey London sky as if caught in a hypnotic trance.

Suddenly his view was obstructed by a tall building. On the side of the tall building was a billboard. And on the billboard was:

**GOT TRUST?**

_Don't waste time investing  
__with questionable entities.  
_"_Honesty, Loyalty, Fidelity_"

**HARPE & PITCHFORD TRUST MANAGEMENT, LLP**

Aziraphale looked away as fast as he could, but the damage was already done; a knot formed in his throat and his mouth went dry. He slouched in his seat and tried to pull himself into the warmth of his coat, feeling suddenly chilled and not at all well.

No, no it was silly. It was mad. Paranoia induced irrationality, that's what. Selective vision provoking the misconception of bizarre coincidences, due to the bearing of a… guilty conscience?

_I haven't got a guilty conscience, have I? Surely not. What could have I ever done in all these millennia that-_

Unsolicited agreements. Unwarranted truces. Conspiring. Subordination. Treason.

_No. No no no. It can't be that._

But what else could it be?

This was his stop. Aziraphale sprang from his seat and shuffled off the bus as quickly as he could, and went to the nearest phone booth. He had to ring Crowley, right now. He was beginning to see things, whether they were delusions of his overactive imagination or signs warning of eminent doom at the hands of Whomever, he had to know. He needed an anchor, some sort of life line to reach out and grab hold of-

He stopped with the phone to his ear and his finger on the first number.

That was when he realised it, when it all became clear to him. It was as if he had spent his entire existence on this earth blindfolded and relatively happy, only to have the cloth torn away when he least expected it, leaving his eyes bare and naked in the wind and open to everything. Here, in a smelly phone booth, on a crowded square in central London, on a grey Monday morning no less, Aziraphale finally saw what he had failed to see for so long, whether by subconscious repression or his own blatant ignorance, he now knew.

He clenched his teeth and trembled. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad. He simply _wasn't_.

"Give me a sign," he murmured, staring at the number pad. "Just one more to make it proper."

Nothing happened. He waited. More nothing happened, then a little more. He waited a little longer, just to be sure. Lots of nothing happened in consequence.

Aziraphale sighed and placed the phone back on the cradle, then stepped out of the booth, feeling somewhat relieved. But that didn't last for long because the first thing he saw, the very _first_ thing that greeted his eyes upon stepping from the booth, was a lamp post. A paper had been taped onto it, right at eye level. It had the words LOST at the top, and a picture of a furry cat below it. Beneath the photo read:

_Angel. 2 yrs old, pure white, plump,  
__blue eyes, friendly & smart. Fell from  
__balcony on Greyce St. in NC London,  
__not seen since. Loving family misses  
__dearly._

_Contact Joan Milton at _# _below if seen._

Half a second later Aziraphale was in the phone booth again, madly punching in a series of numbers that no other person on earth knew, except for a few unfortunate telemarketers who will never make that same mistake again.

* * *

Anthony Crowley was, for what it seemed at the moment, pupating. He lay motionless in his disheveled bed, wholly wrapped in the comforter like a Mexican entrée and lost somewhere in the midst of a foggy realm that lay on the thin void between unconsciousness and the Unknown. He very dimly registered the phone ringing, and he knew immediately who it was. Aziraphale's rings always sounded more urgent than anyone else's, not that anyone else was really in the habit of calling him at home, during daylight hours much less.

It was a dream, he decided, and lapsed back into that semi-comatose state of nothingness.

But the phone kept ringing. Why the ansaphone hadn't taken care of it by now was anyone's guess, but it continued to ring and ring and ring, driving away the ominous silence that had coiled itself around Crowley's mind and bringing him back into sharp, cold clarity.

Wriggling himself free from his warm, protective cocoon, the demon reached over to the bedside table and picked up the handset, dropped it, picked it up again, and somehow managed to get it to his ear.

"What'dyou want, angel."

"Crowley, is that you?"

"No. It's the Queen Mum."

"Crowley, I have to talk to you right away. It's urgent."

"Can't it wait? I'm not feeling well."

"Oh no. What's the matter?"

The demon pulled himself back into his satin tortilla with a sleepy grunt. "Haven't felt like myself lately. Probably caught something."

"Demons don't fall ill, Crowley, I'm telling you, there's something strange afoot. I've been seeing things."

Crowley didn't want to know. He was simply entertaining Aziraphale when he muttered, "What kinds of things."

"_Things_, you know, newspapers and adverts and signs. I received a letter in the post a few days ago and it-"

"Az-"

"-said that-"

"Azir-"

"-I ought to bewa-"

"_Aziraphale_."

"What?"

Crowley closed his eyes. "I really don't have time for this."

"What the devil do you mean by that?" the angel demanded.

"What's it got to do with me?"

"Crowley, trouble is brewing. I think something terrible is going to happen."

"Terrible like what?"

"I don't know! That's why I called you. I was hoping perhaps you've heard from your people."

"I haven't. Aziraphale, what's this all about? Why are you really calling me?"

There was a brief pause on the other side. "I needed to hear your voice. I wanted to know that… that you're all right."

"Don't know about all right, but I'm still alive and incorporated if that's what you mean."

"Crowley, I need to talk to you."

"So talk to me."

"Not over the wire. I need to see you. Can you meet me this afternoon? St. James', two o'clock perhaps?"

Something that had been sleeping inside of Crowley slowly began to waken, and for a single moment he was absolutely terrified for reasons that he failed to grasp. Suddenly he wasn't entirely sure if he trusted himself any longer, not like this, not around the angel. What oh _what_ was the matter with him?

He should have said no. He should have said nothing and hung up the phone right then, but he didn't. The darkness inside was already making him forget.

"I need time," came the mellow reply. "How does six o'clock sound?"

"Crowley, this is _urgent_," Aziraphale insisted. "I need to see you as soon as possible."

"All right, five thirty. Take it or leave it."

There was a sputter on the other end, then a forced sigh. "Fine. But you had better not be late."

"Relax. You can trust me."

There was a pause, and Crowley thought he heard an almost inaudible murmur of "Can I?" but he wasn't certain.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," said Aziraphale. "See you at five thirty."

And he rang off.

Crowley pressed the OFF button on the handset and pulled the covers over his head. He fell asleep once more, and as far as he knew, never woke up.

* * *

The political conference went better than Aziraphale had expected, if also a bit peculiarly. It turned out that nobody had even heard of the scandal because it had never existed. Aziraphale cited a very reliable source for verification, but the source had heard nothing of the event and left the muddled angel wondering if he hadn't witnessed a fluke misprint or perhaps confused the newspaper with a tabloid. Certainly it was nothing to worry about. It hadn't happened after all, and that amended things, right?

With the meeting adjourned and Aziraphale's dreadfully tedious task out of the way for at least another month or two, he allowed himself to heave a much-needed sigh of relief and collect his thoughts concerning the troublesome day he was having. On his way back to the bus stop he passed by the lamp post and telephone booth, and noticed that the LOST poster was, well, lost. In fact, it looked as if it had never been there in the first place; no shreds of paper stuck to bits of remaining tape, nothing. Just bare lamp post.

_Perhaps they found their cat? In the past three hours?_ Aziraphale hoped, more for the sake of his own sanity rather than the happiness of the Milton family. He hurried along and caught the bus back to Soho. He tried to relax and find a reasonable explanation for things, such as simple overreaction or too much caffeine. He was doing a fine job of it until the bus passed by where the Harpe & Pitchford Trust Management, LLP billboard was once stationed on the side of a building, now gone. Vanished. Kaput. Not even the billboard frame remained.

Aziraphale suddenly knew how it felt to be utterly mad. Was he hallucinating? Was his mind inventing images to warn him of his own subconscious awareness to danger? What was going on? But what's more, did he really _want_ to know what was going on?

The bus ride seemed to last for hours. Time misplaced itself, passed when it wanted to, idled when it pleased. It loitered in Aziraphale's seat and flipped a coin, like it had no place else to be. With each mile a little piece of the angel's composure crumbled away until he was nearly on the brink of a hysterical conniption by the time he disembarked at his stop. He shuffled quickly down the street to his bookshop, carelessly bumping into people in his mental absence.

He arrived at the door, unlocked it with hands that had hardly ceased shaking that entire morning, stepped inside, and removed his coat. It was unusually dark in the store for this time of day. The shades were down and the curtains drawn. Aziraphale didn't remember closing them up before he left.

"Splendid," he said to himself as he walked to the windows with the intention of letting in some light. "Not only am I going insane, but I'm also getting Alzheimer's."

"I wouldn't say _that_, Your Highness," murmured a deep, unfamiliar voice.

Aziraphale, given the fact that he was more or less an eternal entity simply dressed in a suit of mortal flesh, was wholly capable of jumping out of his own skin. He did that just now. There was a surprised pop, a puffy white explosion, and suddenly loose feathers were drifting down from where they had been shaken free of a pair of ethereal wings.

The angel spun with a horrified expression to see Duke Hastur leaning comfortably against a book shelf, casually thumbing through a rare first edition of _The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde_. He gazed across the room at his foe with an amused smirk on his lean, sharp face. He was dressed a bit better than the last time Aziraphale had seen him; it looked as if he had gone through a lot of trouble to update his wardrobe from the sad rendition of a WWII German officer's uniform to a less-formal black slacks and leather blazer outfit. It still didn't make him look any less menacing.

Aziraphale instinctively backed against the wall, stunned. "You!" he exclaimed, more surprised to have been taken by surprise than to find a duke of Hell in his abode. "How did- why are you-?"

"Calm down. I'm not here on infernal business," the duke said, straightening himself and placing the book back on a shelf. "I came on behalf of your halo and my job. To put it simply, I'm here to save you."

Aziraphale gawped. "I beg your pardon."

"You are in grave danger, Your Highness." Pause.

His Highness looked distinctly nauseated.

The demon continued, "I really thought you would have caught onto the fact sooner, but you're very good at denying reality, angel. Like most of your kind. Head in the clouds, all that."

Aziraphale felt his temper begin to warm. Hastur laughed; it sounded normal.

"Don't be upset. It was a joke. Angels and clouds, you know. Surely Crowley has taught you to have a sense of humour, hasn't he?"

Aziraphale immediately entered a heightened state of defence at the mention of his associate; his feathers rustled softly as they plumed in alarm, his cheeks took on a pink flush, and his eyes flashed something dangerous behind their peaceful cerulean hue. The duke noticed his reaction and grinned almost gleefully.

"So he _is_ your friend, is he?" he said as he took a cigar case from the inside breast pocket of his blazer.

"How long have you been watching us?" Aziraphale asked coldly.

Hastur lit a cigar with the tip of his long, bony forefinger and blew a small cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. "It doesn't take a mastermind to figure out that you two are consorts. I mean, the way you two dine and drink together nearly every other week, anyone in their right minds could see it. It's very careless of you if you ask me."

"It's a good thing that I didn't ask you, then."

The demon took a long drag. The tip of the cigar glowed hellishly red for a moment and then dropped ash to the floor. "How long has Crowley been romancing you, angel?"

"He's not romancing me," snapped Aziraphale, "and that's none of your damned business."

"When your fate directly affects my position, it damned well _is_ my business," Hastur said with a serious tone, striding over to where the angel stood riveted to the spot. "Aziraphale –do you mind if I call you Aziraphale? Listen, I'm going to do something very special just for you, Aziraphale, but you can't tell anybody I did it, all right?"

The angel was very, very reluctant to answer. Hastur didn't wait.

"I'm going to tell you the truth. No lies. Will you listen?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

"How can I be sure that you _are_ telling the truth?"

Hastur smiled around the cigar. His teeth were far too sharp. "Heh. You're just going to have to trust me."

"And why should I do an insane thing like that?"

"Because, Aziraphale," he said, "I have no reason to lie to you."

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment. Then he folded his wings down tightly, they disappeared, and he had returned to his normal, middle-aged alter ego. He pursed his lips and crossed his arms skeptically.

"All right, Your Disgrace," he said. "I'm listening."

Hastur nodded. "You may think you know Crowley, angel, but with all due respect, you don't know shit. About him, about us. But demons, see, we know each other. Only we know what we're capable of, only we know the tactics we use to bring the righteous down. I came to you to warn you not because I like you, but because I hate Crowley."

"Ah." Nod. "For killing your partner Ligur, correct?"

"Yes. And for being a smug, conniving bastard. In fact, he's so good at what he does that he's even managed to fool _you_ into thinking you're his friend."

"Pray, tell me, why would he do that?" Aziraphale said uninterestedly.

Hastur pretended to be engrossed in blowing smoke rings. "Do you happen to know the reward for Felling an angel? A Principality? One of the four Cardinal Principalities on this earth and former guardian of the Eastern Gate?"

The Cardinal Principality and former guardian of the Easter Gate shook his head slightly.

"Well, put it this way," he said. "It's like every holiday on this disgusting planet all rolled into one gigantic, hellfire orgy and mixed with nitro glycerin, and then shaken. Crowley would go straight to the top of Hell's ranks and he'd never have to take shit from nobody ever again. His power Below would be the equivalent of, oh what's the name of that poncy tosser you've got on your side? Raphael, I think? Yeah, that's him."

"Crowley would be an arch-demon?" Aziraphale asked a trifle uneasily.

"Something like that. But only if he got you to Fall."

"He'd never do a thing like that."

"And why not? Oh, right, right. I forgot. You know all about demons, yes. How stupid of me to assume you know nothing of the degree of deception our kind is capable of spawning."

Aziraphale scowled at the demon. "I know Crowley better than you, Hastur. I've lived with him for over six thousand years now and-"

"Yes, you know him, but only one side of him. We have many sides, ugly ones that we don't show to anyone else and no one but us knows about. We're excellent actors, you know. It's part of our torture and punishment, don't you see? We bloody tell _lies_ for a living. It's why we can never trust each other—it makes us mad. It's why we are the way we are."

"Demons?"

"Yes."

"If you've got anything else to say, I suggest you do it now," Aziraphale said with a tone of unmistakable threat in his voice, "otherwise I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Fine. I can see you've already made up your mind, angel, but allow me to ask you this: how much longer are you going to allow yourself to be led around by Crowley? Think on it. Right now your entire life practically revolves around him, or haven't you noticed yet? You can't go a fortnight without pining for him and disguising it as annoyance. You've developed feelings for him, and that is exactly what he was hoping for. You're being led like a lamb to the slaughter-"

"Shut up," Aziraphale muttered, looking askance.

"Why else would he befriend an angel? What'd be in it for _him_, eh? What'd he get out of a 'wholesome friendship'? You think he actually _likes_ you? You think you're just going to sit back and be good old mates forever then, right? Well I'll tell you one thing, demons don't settle for that kind of rot."

Hastur became more intense, stabbing gestures with the cigar between his fingers to make his point.

"Crowley's not your friend because he wants to be. He's your friend because he's been working on a master plan to get you fired. He's formulated a top secret idea and hasn't told any of his own people because he wants the credit all for himself, the greedy worm. Why the fuck else you think he'd hang about this wretched place when there's more exciting places to go? Here, this ought to ruffle your feathers: Crowley was one of our transient agents once upon a time. Yeah, that's right. He was a wanderer, roaming all over this stinking planet way back when and stirring up evil, and everything was wretchedly fine. Then he started getting close to you, realised what a blithering gullible naïf you are, and when you took up residence in London, so did he. Coincidence? You decide. I'm just stating facts here, but if you don't watch your tail feathers, Your Highness, you're going to lose them."

"I don't believe you," Aziraphale said, but he was lying. A flower, a disgusting weed called Doubt, had already begun to bloom in his mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The duke's face softened and took on an almost sympathetic expression. "I understand it must be hard for you," he said gently, "being deceived for so long. But I wouldn't have come to you if it didn't concern me somehow, that's just how demons are, in all sincerity. We can't help it, you see."

"So what's your part in this?"

Hastur took a meditative puff and narrowed his eyes. "If you Fall, and if Crowley gets promoted, he's going to outrank me. I can't kiss the arse of the bastard who killed my partner, I'd rather die and go to Heaven. If one of your angels had killed Crowley and got a hero's treatment, how would you feel about it, eh?"

"I…"

"You're fond of him, I know. That's dangerous, Your Highness, and very stupid. Your feelings for Crowley are the key to his success, and ultimately your Fall."

He was very close to Aziraphale now, closer than the angel would have liked. The cigar smoke made his eyes sting as the duke's voice fell to a irreverent whisper.

"Everything," he murmured, "_everything_ he's ever told you -about himself, about his past, his present, his very _existence_- was a lie. He wants nothing more than to see you Fall, to be dragged into Hell kicking and screaming, where he can make up for all those unfulfilled nights by ravaging your soul until it shines no more."

Aziraphale shook his head but he was already trembling. "You couldn't fake what we had- _have_. What we have. No one could play a farce like that."

Hastur grinned incredulously. "Your Highness, this isn't a piddling little imp we're talking about. This is _Crowley_, the serpent who brought the entire human race to its knees and abandoned them to the mercy of the damned. Any demon capable of getting away with something like _that_ can fool a simple angel into thinking he's their friend. He did it with Eve, he can do it with you just as easily."

"Eve was only human."

"And the greatest of all His creatures, greater than you," Hastur replied darkly. "And now her children belong to us. So will you, if you don't wise up. Listen, I know somewhere in that foggy feather-brain of yours I'm getting through, and that means there's still hope for you. But you've got to do _something_ before it's too late. Remember, for all Crowley's subtle human acts, he's still one of Us, a bastard son of Hell, a servant to His Infernal Majesty. Remember that the next time he looks at you with those pretty yellow eyes of his, or when he brings a smile to your face with a pleasant little lie told by a forked tongue."

Aziraphale gulped, and was quiet for a short while. "If," he said shakily at last, "_if_ what you're saying is the truth, what could I do? I imagine you aren't going to be jumping to my rescue any time soon."

Hastur shook his head. "I've already risked too much by entering the dwelling of an angel, and if my people ever find out that I warned you against another demon's infernal plot to destroy you, I'm going to get it. Big time. Hell like you wouldn't believe. But I couldn't just stand aside and watch that sneaky bastard get away with what he's planning."

He ground the cigar into the wall and let it drop to the floor.

"Listen to me, this is very important: you must keep this little meeting of ours a secret. Don't let Crowley know that you know what he's up to, he could go insane and hurt a lot of innocent people—not that I even care about the stupid humans, but I know you do. The best thing you could do is to just cut off all contact with him, tell him your 'friendship' is over and that you never want to see him again. Don't let him convince you to reconsider, no matter how much he begs and pleads and pretends to be hurt. Your job and your life depend on you being able to stand up to him, and for a slimy little serpent, he's pretty good at getting people to do exactly what he wants. Don't forget, he's done it before."

Aziraphale felt as if he were suddenly drowning. He couldn't seem to think straight anymore. Nothing was making sense. It was like he was lost in his own mind and frantically searching for a way out.

"And what if he's not trying to Fell me?" he managed to croak at last. "What if he truly wants to-"

"Impossible," Hastur scoffed. "Demons don't have friends, Below or Above, not amongst each other, certainly not with enemy agents. You can't continue to think like this or else you're not going to help yourself a bloody bit, now if you doubt me at all, just put Crowley to the test. Ask him the true meaning of your friendship. You'll see then, Your Highness, oh, you'll bloody see what I'm talking about. I can only help you out so much before my people would notice, so you've got to help yourself. Besides, you got yourself into this mess by believing a demon could be your friend in the first place, no hard feelings or anything, but you'll understand in good time."

Hastur reached into his pocket and handed Aziraphale a business card. "If you ever want to talk, you can find me here."

Aziraphale glanced at the card. "You're living in London?"

"Temporarily. I had to come up here in order to warn you. I'm counting on you, angel, as ironic as that sounds. Don't let me down, or else you're going to have more to worry about than a serpent trying to permanently ground you."

He smiled, managing to look charming for the briefest of moments, and then showed himself out. Aziraphale stood numbly where he was, breathing heavily in his forgetfulness and turning the business card over and over in his hand. The demon's scent still lingered in the air, along with the nauseous odour of the infernal cigar. The angel tried to be reasonable, but every direction his thoughts led was confronted by a wall of madness. He felt like he wanted to scream and cry, if only to find some way to physically purge the emotion from his being.

But Aziraphale didn't scream, and he certainly didn't cry. He collected himself in a way that only a pompous 19th century Englishman knew how: he sniffed, lifted his chin high, stiffened his upper lip, and pulled out his pocket watch. Crowley will be expecting him at the park in a while. Perhaps it was a good day for a walk after all.

* * *

Down the street and lurking inconspicuously behind a large neon sign stood Hastur. He watched as the angel locked the door to his bookshop behind him, adjusted the collar of his coat, and set off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

"Did he take it, boss?" asked Ed, who peered around the demon's boots at the departing figure.

The duke smiled evilly. "Like a child in a candy store," he said triumphantly. "Bought it all and came back for more. I don't even think he realised that the so-called 'signs' he saw were our doing. No wonder Crawly's been after him for so long, he's a typical heavenly sheep. If all angels were as trusting as him, we'd own mankind, Ed."

"Own 'em, you bet. Tax, title and tag."

"What?"

"Er, nothing, boss."

"I think he's well enough ahead," said Hastur, squinting to see Aziraphale. "Run along and follow him, and don't let him out of your sight. I want details when you get back, so you'd better not disappoint me."

"Right!" yipped the Chihuahua, and with the tapping of toenails on concrete, scampered down the sidewalk after the angel.

* * *

It had rained that afternoon and the ground was still soft and wet when Aziraphale arrived at the usual meeting spot by the duck pond. He dried off the nearby bench with a thought and sat down to wait for his associate. Two wading mallards recognised the familiar bread-bearing figure and scuttled ashore. They came waddling up to the bench, quacking softly with each awkward step, and nibbled at the tasteless brown oxfords as if looking for a food-dispensing button to press.

"Sorry, chaps," Aziraphale said to them, "I'm empty-handed today."

The fowl gave the angel a piece of their minds before angrily shaking their tail feathers and returning to the water, grumbling to each other about what the world was coming to when people visit a duck pond without a single crumb to toss.

Aziraphale sighed and glanced at his pocket watch again. Five fifty five. Late as usual. At least that was comforting; had Crowley actually been on time this once, the angel would have been alarmed enough to believe that something truly was the matter.

_He always makes me wait for him_, Aziraphale thought with annoyance, _and yet I'm always punctual. How unfair. I ought to be terribly late just once, teach him a lesson. What arrogance he has to assume that I'll always be waiting for him. What kind of power does he think he has over me, anyway?_

"Hi," murmured a voice in his ear.

The angel very nearly jumped out of his mortal skin for the second time that day. He wasn't accustomed to being on edge like this, and the fact that Crowley obviously knew he was on edge and exploited this paranoia for his own personal amusement made Aziraphale very cross.

"Don't ever do that again," he snapped as his associate walked around the bench and sat down next to him. Very next to him. Nexter to him than usual.

"Sorry," Crowley shrugged and flashed an unnecessary grin. "Didn't know you would be so twitchy."

"I'm not twitchy," Aziraphale said as he inched away as inconspicuously as he could. "Where have you been for the past few days?"

"Around," said the demon, crossing his legs and resting his arms along the back of the bench casually. "Hope you didn't put out an APB for me. You know you have to wait forty eight hours before you can file a mis-"

"Don't patronise me, Crowley, I was worried."

"About me? How sweet of you, angel. If I didn't know any better I'd say you were in love with me."

"I'm being serious, you nitwit," Aziraphale said acidly, though his heart was bouncing off of his sternum like a tennis ball. "You've been acting strangely ever since you got back from your 'business trip', and I've been sensing a premonition stirring in the universal fibre."

"Hm. It could just be the universal Metamucil."

"You're not funny, Crowley. Something bad is going to happen very soon, I can feel it, like those last days before the Apocalypse. Do you remember what they were like? The overwhelming dread and anticipation hanging in the atmosphere like the breath before the fall, the sheer helplessness to halt the inevitable pressing down on y-"

Aziraphale was cut off when the demon leaned forward and gazed at him with golden eyes from over the rims of his shades. "As much as I find this all positively riveting," he said with a drowsy, predatory slur, "what's it got to do with me and you?"

"Everything." The angel turned his eyes out towards the pond. "Crowley, I've been thinking. I've been… I believe I'm starting to see things for what they are for the first time since the Beginning: the Arrangement, our… camaraderie."

He paused. Crowley said nothing.

"You may not have noticed, but we've grown awfully close since That Saturday. I don't know who's to blame for it; both of us, perhaps, but it's compelled me to, to start asking some very poignant questions."

"Such as."

Aziraphale's fingers twiddled restlessly. "What's to be done about it."

"What's to be done about what?"

"Us."

"And what about us?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"What would you like to hear?"

"It doesn't matter what I like, all that matters is the truth."

"Aziraphale," said Crowley, drawing the name out in a way that brought to mind the slow movement of serpentine scales as they slinked across black satin. "You know I wouldn't lie to you."

The angel turned his head and stared into the sunglasses. "I'm not so sure about that, Crowley."

The sardonic smile that had been present on the demon's lips during the course of their conversation vanished suddenly and settled into a blank, vacant expression.

"What do you mean? What's happened to make you doubt me?"

"It-it's not so much what has happened _recently_, but the questions that have been lying just beneath the surface all this time," Aziraphale said evasively. "We haven't bothered to ask them because we were afraid they would get us in trouble, after the Apocalypse, mind you, when everything was so uncertain. But now enough time has passed that I think it's time we start thinking about what we plan to do with the rest of our lives here on Earth. I mean, we obviously aren't living up to our full potential when we've got to travel back from foreign countries just to keep our dinner appointments."

"I think keeping dinner appointments is a very good reason to leave a foreign country," came the thoughtful reply.

Aziraphale looked tired. "Face it, Crowley, we're hindering each other by working so closely in the same territory. Perhaps some distance would be a good idea, think of it as a holiday of sorts. It's embarrassing really; look at how much we've come to depend on one another's company. I mean, goodness knows, a demon and an angel, truce, _maybe_, but co-existing on a level like this?" He shook his head. "It's not healthy."

"You say the same thing about custard pie, but you still eat that."

"There's a big difference between demons and custard pies."

"Yeah, we taste a whole lot better for one thing."

"I honestly wouldn't know."

"You ought to try, then."

"Stop it," Aziraphale growled. "Just stop it."

Crowley sulked. "You haven't laughed or smiled once yet."

"It's hard to be merry with someone you don't trust."

"Don't you trust me, Aziraphale?"

"I need to know one thing before I can." There came a pause, then a breath. "Crowley. Why did you really settle in London? And don't lie to me, because I'll know it if you do."

The demon looked oddly relieved. "That's all? To be closer to you," he said simply.

"Why would you want to be closer to me?"

"Because we're business partners. We work together, right? Wile and thwart, you know the routine. It's all part of the Arrangement."

"The Arrangement wasn't a certified business contract, Crowley," Aziraphale said with unusual vehemence. "It was a conditional agreement between two parties that, if ever they were in proximity of one another, insured no senseless acts of violence for the sake of bureaucracy. It was not a matrimonial proposition, nor was it a binding covenant for long-term living arrangements with one another in the same ten kilometre radius. It was a simple, basic settlement that wasn't even transcribed to written document because its stipulations were so loosely defined."

"Well damn, angel. Sue me why don't you."

"Can't you bloody be serious for one second!"

"_Me_ be serious?" Crowley snapped. "Why don't _you_ be reasonable? Do you have any idea what you sound like right now? You're being dodgy, you don't answer my questions, you're treating me like some sort of sinister suspect, so why don't you be a man about it and tell me why you _really_ brought me here."

He almost sounded like the old Crowley again. Almost. But Aziraphale knew better. However, it still wasn't enough to keep the glisten out of his pale blue eyes.

"We're finished, Crowley," he said with a detached voice. "You and me. Us. The Arrangement. All of it, nullified as of this day."

At first the demon looked as if he were going to start laughing, but after a few moments all sign of outward emotion faded. For a while he was silent, still, breathless. Finally Aziraphale couldn't bear to look at him another second. He stood from the bench, but a hand reached up and grasped his coat sleeve.

"Aziraphale, _angel_, please," Crowley's voice whispered in his most convincing tremble, "don't do this to me. I need you. I can't live without you. Look at me, please, just _look_ at me for one second!"

And Aziraphale did. He looked down at Crowley's face as he removed his sunglasses. Golden irises stared pitifully upwards, begging more loudly and more profoundly than the demon ever could. His lips were trembling, his hands shaking, his eyes shimmering in a way that only melodramatic soap opera actors could achieve with the proper lighting. And then he went too far.

Lips moved. Three words were spoken. The world held its breath. Aziraphale blinked slowly, and something hot ran down his cheeks. And without another thought, he struck Crowley across the face with the palm of his hand. It wasn't a forceful blow, but being that this was the first physical assault one of them had experienced at the hands of the other in several hundred years, it received the intended effect.

Crowley dropped the angel's sleeve and put a hand to his smarting cheekbone, staring at his former comrade with a mixture of anger, betrayal, and shock.

_He's still one of Us, a bastard son of Hell, a servant to His Infernal Majesty. Remember that the next time he looks at you with those pretty yellow eyes of his, or when he brings a smile to your face with a pleasant little lie told by a forked tongue…_

Aziraphale's hand was still throbbing from the impact. He broke his gaze with the demon and looked out across the pond.

"I never want to see your face again, Crowley. You have three days to leave London. Three more to leave Europe and never return. If I ever see you again, I will kill you, do you understand."

"Az… Azira-"

He drew in a breath and blinked. "It's a shame," he sighed. "I've always hated saying good-bye."

And then he walked away.

* * *

It didn't sink through to the reality deep inside him until Aziraphale had vanished from his sight completely. Lost somewhere beneath the waves of an unknown sea determined to drown him, the true Crowley felt himself begin to die. The black water above and below was laughing cruelly, tossing him violently and smashing the will from his body. He fought to swim to the surface of his consciousness, but wave after wave crashed down upon his head like a titan's hammer, sinking him deeper into the abyss where the small spark could never survive.

Most of the time he didn't know which way was up or down, whether he was clawing his way towards the air or towards death, but somehow, through sheer desperation brought on by the dim awareness of what had just happened, he broke the surface.

And Crowley was awake, though barely, and fighting weakly against a faceless foe.

"Aziraphale," he hissed softly, wanting nothing more than to curl in upon himself and go to sleep forever. He ached inside, like something was in there and tearing him apart, eating him one vital organ at a time. It hurt so badly he could scarcely think about anything else, but by some measure of a miracle, his own instinctive selfishness was tossed aside.

"Azi…ra," he gasped haltingly, staggering from the bench and lurching off towards where he vaguely remembered parking. "You were… right. Sssomething's wrong."

After what seemed like hours of wandering while blacking in and out of life, Crowley slumped against the side of the Bentley and tried to stop the world from spinning. He wanted to get off his feet. He felt like vomiting himself inside out. On the walk, people passed him by without giving any notice. It was as if he wasn't even there at all, that he was invisible. They couldn't help him anyway. No human being could, even if they wanted to.

Crowley slid into the front seat and felt a fever devour him, amplifying the searing pain that was already ripping through his body.

"Start… the car," he uttered as sweat beaded down the sides of his face. "Go… find Aziraph-"

Darkness flooded his eyes, but not before he heard the Bentley's engine growl to life and felt the wheels roll into the street.

* * *

Crowley awoke gradually. He was lying on the carpet, staring at the ceiling over his living room. He had no idea what time it was, nor what day for that matter. He was so consumed with pain that he was almost certain he was paralysed, but at least his surroundings had stopped churning and spinning. However, this did little to alleviate his condition, so he decided that he would try to clear his thoughts and get his bearings back one breath at a time.

Something in the room, smoke perhaps, was making his eyes sting and water. It was acrid and foul and yet disgustingly familiar. The moment he recalled the horrific brand of cigars that Hastur so fondly favoured, the duke's voice sounded as if on cue:

"Welcome back, Crawly. You had me worried—you've been comatose for an entire week. So glad you were able to make it all the way out here to give your final farewell performance, though."

An ugly chuckle followed, and then Crowley saw Hastur crouch down by his side. The seniour demon grinned sharply and blew cigar smoke into Crowley's face; he gagged and began to cough violently, which sent fiery blades of agony into his chest.

"Mind if I smoke? Thanks, you're a sport."

"Bastard," the prostrate demon choked. "What did you do to me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Can't turn your head? I do apologise. Here, I'll get it for you."

Hastur wedged the cigar between his teeth, reached down and grabbed Crowley's hair in both hands, lifted, turned with a juicy crack, and dropped. Crowley accidentally bit the inside of his cheek and stifled a small screech. When he stopped grimacing and opened his eyes, he saw his mortal corporation (or at least what remained of it) lying next to him in several bloody, mangled, reeking chunks.

It appeared that Hastur had had a bit of fun while his victim was still unconscious, judging by the gruesome way that a few organs were removed and so lovingly decorated with things like nails and knives and darts and shuriken and even a vintage Iroquois tomahawk. And was that his imagination, or was there really a sweater-clad Chihuahua on the other side of the room, enthusiastically gnawing on what looked like either an ulna or a radius with bits of meat still hanging off of it?

Unthinkable. It seemed that the demented duke had somehow managed to extract Crowley's true form by dismantling his flesh and intercepting the subsequent summon down to the Department of Mortal Raiment, but Crowley was not worried by his apparent vulnerability at the hands of one who would take great pleasure in disemboweling him one ounce at a time—he was pissed off.

"Hastur, you _prick_," he seethed. "Look at what you did to my fucking carpet."

He was grabbed by the hair again, lifted completely upright, and held squarely eye to eye with his antagonist.

"Your carpet is going to be the least of your worries when the poison begins to run its course," he smiled sadistically, and then slammed Crowley back down to the floor.

The unfortunate demon felt something crack beneath him, and as burning stalagmites of pain shot into his back he realised that it was his wings, bound tightly to his body with yards of thin, chafing rope. But right now his main concern was with the last six words he just heard.

"What did you use?" he demanded, trying to sound tough but only managing to sound bewildered.

Hastur said levelly, "Don't worry, it won't kill you right away. No sense in dying without enduring excruciating pain and suffering first."

Crowley coughed violently, half-screaming each time his body was wracked by the reflex. It was only when he felt blood begin to pool in the back of his throat that he knew Hastur wasn't bluffing, and that if he didn't think of some way to save himself that it was going to be curtains. He also didn't trust the duke not to do something horrible to his real corpse like what happened to his faux one. Not that Crowley would care. He'd be too busy not existing to notice.

"Music to my ears," Hastur said sentimentally, listening to the helpless demon on the floor gurgling and spitting out blood before it could drown him. "It almost makes me sad, Crawly. Poisons are your specialty, not mine. I thought you would have caught on sooner, but I suppose it really was predestined after all."

"Oh please, _do_ enlighten me," Crowley sputtered sardonically, lips slick and shiny red.

The duke produced a small, almost empty-looking pouch from his pocket and dangled it above his victim's face. The heart-shaped skull stitched on the side grinned at him.

"It's my own recipe. _Essence de Incubus_ and dust from the holiest chambers of the Vatican°, for a lovely sex-crazed dementia followed by pure agony. Really brings out the mindless, evil desires in a demon. I call it Lust Dust. I started you on small doses, didn't want you snuffing it before the fun started you know, and increased the amount over time. I'm astounded you've managed to last this long. I was afraid I was going to run out."

(°_Yes, even the dust is blessed at the Vatican_.)

"Lust Dust. Cute name. How'd you get the ingredients? I thought They had a law prohibiting the sale of lethal potions to idiots."

"Oh you are _so_ clever, Crowley. You're so clever in fact that while you were off smoking yourself into a stupor and playing Ring Around the Roses with your little Third Reich friends, myself and my accomplice took the liberty of sabotaging your automobile and your lair. After you returned, whenever you were in one, we were out seasoning the other in greater amounts. Now everything is saturated with Dust, and you were _so_ clever that it escaped your knowledge completely. Perhaps if you weren't so caught up with trying to get your hands on that angel you'd have been able to save yourself before it was too late."

The spark in the deep dark inside of Crowley burst into flame like an atom bomb detonating, and suddenly he was oblivious to even his own imminent doom; his nostrils flared, his expression disappeared, and what might have been a homicidal thought flickered in his eyes, causing his pupils to dilate like an angered cat's just before it pounced and shredded something to pieces.

Hastur saw. Crowley saw that Hastur saw. Hastur saw that Crowley saw that he saw.

"Ooh hoo hoo," the duke laughed in mock fear. "I knew I was going to strike a chord with that one."

"Touch him and I'll kill you."

"Bold words coming from a dying demon," Hastur said, swinging the pouch casually. "I'd be more than happy to finish you off right now if you'd like. Did you know that it only takes a few sprinkles inhaled directly to kill even a moderately powerful demon? Imagine what it would do to _you_, oh delight! This is so exciting I think I've got an erection."

For .24888889 seconds, dying slowly and horribly didn't sound so bad to Crowley. "You're revolting, Hastur."

"Thank you, it was worth the effort. Speaking of which, I'd love to sit around and watch your guts liquefy and ooze out of your orifices, but I've got a date to console a grieving angel and can't keep him waiting. He's going to want to thank me for opening his eyes to your plan to Fell him, and if I play my cards just right, I won't be returning to Dis alone tonight."

"You fucking bastard," Crowley uttered, swallowing a half pint of his own blood. "So you're responsible for all of this. For all the…! You _stay_ away from him or I-"

"You had your chance, Crawly, and you blew it. You had all those years to Fell him but you didn't know how the Game worked. _I_ do. That's why _I'm_ a duke and you're nothing but a squirming, wormy little nobody. You failed us all, Crawly. You're a disappointment, incompetent, a worthless demon who got away with murder and ruined the Apocalypse for our side."

Hastur grabbed Crowley's face in his hand and gritted his teeth.

"You thought you would get away with it, didn't you, you slimy cunt? You thought you were going to bring down the Principality and make up for your own blundering stupidity, didn't you? You thought I'd forget that you _annihilated_ my partner and never saw a day's punishment for it, didn't you? Well you were _wrong_, Crawly, dead wrong."

He released the demon and stood to his feet, straightened his leather blazer and combed his hair back with his hand. "Aziraphale is waiting for me. Ha, you know, I never planned to bring down an angel when I came up here. I was just going to kill you and be done with it, but when the opportunity presents itself, I say, go for it."

"Don't call him that, you-" Crowley tried to sit up but pain ripped through his insides and caused him to fall back to the floor, groaning angrily at his own helplessness.

"Now now," Hastur chided mockingly, "don't try to stop me. You won't get very far anyway, looking like that. Even so, if you do manage to free yourself, you won't be flying anywhere soon. It's amazing what you can accomplish with a simple pair of hedging shears, everything from trimming privet to clipping wings."

The duke laughed as Crowley rolled over onto his side and curled into a protective foetal position, feeling as if he were going to pass out from the pain. Or cry, which was probably worse.

Hastur collected himself. "Oh, right, by the way Crawly, They won't be expecting you back. I've already got the paperwork for your obituary filled out and ready to be processed, so it's best if you just accept the inevitable and die slowly like you deserve. The more you move the more painful the poison makes it."

Crowley summoned enough strength to lift his head and spit a mouthful of blood onto Hastur's shoes. "I hope he kills you," he hissed.

A swift kick later and Crowley was seeing infra-black starbursts.

"He won't," Hastur muttered. "He'll be too busy enjoying the tasty poison I prepared for him, a nice concoction that guarantees permanent paralysis after only a few minutes. Once he's been rendered immobile, I'll have my little way with him, but that's none of your concern, really—what's left of the Lust Dust belongs to you, so here it is. Consider it my parting gift."

He opened the cinch-string pouch and emptied it into his gloved hand. A small mound of golden dust formed in the centre of his palm; he leaned down towards Crowley's face and blew. The yellow cloud enveloped him and he let out a high pitched whine before launching into a chronicle of sneezes that threatened to drain him of any liquid still held in his body. After he had stopped, he let out a moan of anguish, spasming uncontrollably. Hastur stood upright, removed the glove, and tossed it onto the cringing demon.

"It's ironic, really," he mused. "_Gift_ in German means poison. " He laughed scornfully and turned to leave. "Come along, Ed! It is time to complete Operation Damnation."

The Chihuahua that Crowley thought had been a hallucination dropped the bone it had been playing with and scampered across the room after Hastur. A few moments later the door slammed and silence fell.

* * *

It was dark. No sunlight shined through the blinds, but Crowley didn't know the hour, nor how many he had remaining.

He had lain still for a long while, listening to the faint noise of passing cars outside the apartment building and waiting for the pain to subside to a level he could tolerate. That moment never came. He finally decided that he didn't have time to lie about on the floor, bound and dying while his only friend faced a fate worst than death (by angels' standards, of course). He had to warn Aziraphale. Or he had to at least try.

Crowley sucked in a breath and lurched upward. It took six attempts before he finally managed to get himself into a sitting position, and the moment he succeeded he vomited blood into his lap. His world was beginning to dance around him again, twisting back and forth and distorting, stretching, twirling, turning. He wanted to lie back down and curl up on the floor again, anything to make his sickening, swirling surroundings go away.

"I don't… want to die like this," he grunted, straining to stay conscious and speaking aloud to keep himself present. "I can't let him down."

The agony consuming him was unbearable. Blood was trickling from everywhere: his nose, his eyes, his mouth, his ears. The ropes bit into his skin like razors and leaked his life fluid out like a broken faucet. His carpet was never going to look the same again.

"I love pain," he groaned, trying to get his legs to work. "Pain is good. Love the pain. Want the pain. Need the pain. Embrace the pain-"

A burst of energy later and he was on his feet, swaying unsteadily. For five whole seconds Crowley actually believed that he was going to make it. Then his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor, crumpling like a sheet of foil. He let out a howl as an excruciating wave of blistering steel and fire made his previous discomfort seem like a mere paper cut in comparison. It was after this last effort that Crowley realised this was it, that he was going to die, that Aziraphale was going to be poisoned by Hastur and Fall. And that there was nothing he could do to stop any of it.

Crowley's bloody cheek lay pressed to the carpet. He stared at his decaying mortal corpse dispassionately and blinked, and something purer than blood began to trickle from his eyes.

"What kind of a god allows this injustice," he whispered. "What kind of a god leaves his children defenceless and in danger."

He rolled over onto his clipped, broken wings and stared someplace beyond the ceiling, wrath burning in his eyes like flames. "_What kind of a Father are you!_"

The fallen angel's cry ended in a strangled spatter of blood, and he felt the life slowly begin to seep out of him, his body numbing over with a form of death he failed to recognise. But death did not matter to Crowley, nor pain. Only one thing mattered anymore, as it somehow always had for hundreds and hundreds of years. He wished he could have had one last chance to tell Aziraphale, tell him everything. But now nothing awaited him but an eternal realm of emptiness, devoid of thought and familiar smiling faces with twinkling blue eyes.

_Save him,_ came the last thoughts that flitted through Crowley's mind like celestial butterflies on a passing breeze. _Save him… or my whole life will have been for nothing._

He had been expecting darkness and was vaguely surprised by the light that came instead, flying towards his mind's eye like a silent dove. But he stopped caring about it after a little while, around the same time he stopped breathing.

**_To Be Concluded in Part Three!_**


	3. Part Three

**Part Three: In Which Hastur Seduces Aziraphale & Industrialists Make a Big Bang**

A box sat on the counter. It was mostly empty, containing only a few miscellaneous items: a porcelain figure of Lewis Carroll's Alice from _Alice in Wonderland_ that had been put back together after breaking, some corks from vintage wine bottles, a letter or two, a jet black quill pen that had been borrowed and never returned, a thick book with a bloodstain on one side, and an ancient leather pouch that had once held something illegal and very addictive.

Aziraphale had been staring at the box for the past week and biting his nails. He never bit his nails, ever. The letter C was scrawled on one side; it was everything that Crowley had ever given to him (except for the box, and countless headaches and heartbreaks).

"It's for the best," he repeated to himself. "Remove the thorns and the memories shall follow. This is how it should be."

He picked up the box and carried it out to the kerb, set it down to be picked over by bums, roving drunks, or the trash collectors, whomever got to it first. From a different perspective, it was all useless rubbish. No one could possibly want it. It was just a box of junk.

But junk that had once meant something, junk that had been regarded as precious before last week. To anyone else it was worthless, but to Aziraphale...

The angel shuddered and wrapped his coat around himself. It was cold out tonight. He ought to go in and make a hot cup of cocoa, that's what he ought to do. But it wasn't what he _wanted_ to do; he wanted to grab the box and rush back inside, put everything back where it was, and call Crowley to apologise.

_He's not like that anymore and you know it,_ he thought to himself. _He's finally shown his true colours and you did yourself a favour by shaking him off once and for all. The only regrettable thing is that you didn't do it sooner, before you got attached to him. Any sympathy you still feel for him is your own fault and you deserve it. Trusting a demon… what _were _you thinking, Aziraphale?_

He snapped himself out of it and went back inside the shop, locking the door behind him and drawing the dingy curtains. He shrugged off his coat and went to the kitchenette in the back room, putting the kettle on for cocoa.

No. Nothing cocoa. Not ever again. It would be tea from now on. That treacherous demon was responsible for his chocolate addiction, after all. Remove the thorns and the memories shall follow. It's for the best.

A couple of minutes later Aziraphale prepared a cup of oolong and sat down on the Dead Heifer sofa. After a few moments he stood again. That thing was going to have to go as well—it held more stories than Arabian Nights. The angel took his tea out into the shop and sat behind the counter. For entertainment he listened to the grandfather clock tick loudly from the back room like a time bomb, and stared at the front door with a blank expression.

He wondered how long it was going to be before he stopped expecting the phone to ring at this hour and to hear Crowley's perpetually sly, mischievous voice asking him out to dinner. He wondered how long it would take him until he could hear a word or see an object without conjuring up the images of sunglasses and snakeskin shoes, of old cars and houseplants, of expensive Italian suits and a handsome face. He wondered how much of his life he was going to have to erase in order to free himself from the memories of his former friend. But most of all, he wondered how much of himself he had given to Crowley, and if the tattered ruins of what remained after the severance were enough of a reason to keep on going.

Aziraphale placed his palms to his temples and rested his elbows on the counter. He had never felt so alone in his immortal life.

Ever since the Beginning he knew that the wily serpent would always be out there somewhere, being bad and causing trouble for mankind in as many ways as he could. It had seemed harmless back then, even when they argued; it was different because they had always seemed like friends, no matter whose side they were on. They had never been enemies, not really. They just had different opinions, like everyone else in the universe.

But things had changed. Trust had been broken. The very foundation of friendship itself had been shattered. Crowley revealed himself to be a liar and deceiver, just like Hastur had said. Yes, the wily serpent would still be out there somewhere, only now he didn't have to pretend to be 'not-so-bad' to keep an angel fooled. He could let it all hang out, his true self and all of his evil, conniving intentions. He had kept Aziraphale ignorant ever since they had met, a talented actor acting as if he were pretending not to be acting when he was actually acting all along.

Aziraphale needed someone. He _had_ to talk to someone, anyone, even a complete stranger. He couldn't stand to be alone now. He was going to go mad if he had to stay in the bookshop by himself a second longer. He had to leave. He had to go out and just get away from it all. Now.

Tea forgotten, the angel walked over and grabbed his coat as the clock began to chime midnight. As he pulled it on he recalled how many times he had worn the familiar beige garment with the fur collar to meet Crowley at St. James' Park, and promptly tossed it to the floor. He was immortal. He didn't need a bloody coat.

Aziraphale walked out of the shop and closed the door, wincing a little as a chilling breeze swept by him. Instinctively he shoved his hands into his pockets, and felt a piece of paper. He didn't remember pocketing anything today, nor yesterday, for that matter. Puzzled, he pulled out the creased business card and gazed at it.

_D. Hastur  
__Old Vandervent Warehouse  
__London_

He bit his lip and wondered if he were actually desperate enough to seek company and perhaps solace from a duke of Hell. He had already harmed himself enough by hanging about demonic creatures for thousands of years… so what does a brief chat matter now? He was a Principality. He could handle himself if things went awry.

Slipping the card back into his pocket, Aziraphale started off the stoop and began striding quickly towards the Vandervent warehouse.

* * *

The decrepit bay door lifted open with a rusty screech, and Hastur feigned mild surprise when he saw Aziraphale standing there in the dark with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched over as if warding off an internal chill. His nose was red, his face chapped and puffy, and he didn't even need to be wearing mascara in order to tell that he had been crying.

"I c-couldn't find your front door," he stammered, possibly from the night air but probably from his emotional state. "I went round and knocked everywhere. I was afraid you had already gone."

"I apologise, Your Highness, I was busy and didn't hear you," the duke lied, pleased to discover that his tardiness in answering had left the angel's nerves in tatters. "Do come in, won't you."

"Th-thank you."

"I must say, I wasn't expecting anyone at this hour. It's quite dangerous to travel this end of town at night, especially alone. But you can take care of yourself, can't you?"

The metal door slid down with a bang, and Aziraphale was lost in the pitch darkness with a demon. His heart began to pound frantically.

"Is there something you would like to talk about?" came the disembodied voice. "Come, I have a more comfortable place to entertain guests."

Aziraphale heard footsteps walking away from him, and then they abruptly stopped.

"Forgive me, Your Highness—demons aren't accustomed to remembering manners."

A friendly yellow-orange light flared up and illuminated the interior of the loading bay. Hastur smiled charmingly at the angel's worried expression, who saw that the source of the light was coming from the demon's hand: a gently billowing ball of flame was burning soundlessly from his palm like a torch.

He gestured with it politely. "This way."

Aziraphale followed the duke nervously through the cold, dank corridors of the warehouse until one hall opened up into a sprawling central room with a high ceiling. Large windows high up on the walls allowed faint moonlight to filter in, and a railed walkway ran about the circumference, perhaps where managers had once stood to oversee the activities of the workers. It was upon reaching this room that Hastur extinguished the flame and waved his hand. Lights magically came on, revealing a Victorian style parlour that looked as if it had been plucked from a 19th century mystery novel and dropped into the middle of an industrial factory. All it lacked was a crackling fireplace. Nevertheless, it made the furniture seem all the more soft and appealing when surrounded by cold, hard metal and concrete.

"Have a seat and make yourself at home," Hastur bade.

"This is quite a cosy place you've got here," Aziraphale sniffed as he sat down on one end of a dark red chaise. "I never thought that a demon would have such an appreciation for- _augh_!"

The angel sprang up in surprise and looked down to where he had been sitting. A wheezing Chihuahua crawled out from behind one of the pillows and gasped, "Watch where you put that gigantic ass of yours, I was sleeping!"

Aziraphale's face described a stunned look, either at the fact that the tiny dog in the sweater had spoken, or the fact that he'd had the audacity to mention the angel's derriere.

Hastur laughed and sat down in the chair opposite the chaise. "You'll have to forgive Ed, Your Highness. We don't usually have guests."

"Highness?" Ed pretended to look apologetic. "Er, my bad. I'm a little cranky when I wake up."

"No, no, that's all right," said Aziraphale, sitting down again on the other side of the chaise. "I should have looked first." He glanced over at Hastur. "Is he…?"

"A demon?"

"American. I'd always imagined Chihuahuas to speak like Cheech Marin."

"Ha, no," Hastur said, reaching over to the lamp table beside his chair and taking a cigar from the box. He put it between his teeth but didn't light it. "I'm afraid Ed here is one of Hell's numerous imps. He was my personal assistant before an accident got him stuck in the body of a large rat."

Aziraphale glanced uneasily at the imp-dog sitting next to him, scratching an ear with a hind leg. "How unfortunate," he murmured.

"Hardly," Ed muttered. "I only had one arm before. Compared to that, this body is fricking awesome."

"Ed," Hastur interrupted, sounding annoyed, "why don't you go chase tyres and leave our guest alone, hm? He and I have much to discuss."

"All right," Ed sighed, hopping off the chaise. He tip-tapped away into the dark corners of the warehouse and presumably out to do exactly what his boss had suggested.

Aziraphale stared after him with a hollow, melancholy expression. "It must be nice," he said softly, "having an associate to keep you company."

"Associate?" Hastur scoffed, lighting his cigar. "If you could even call him that. More trouble than he's worth, the bloody twit."

"Aren't they all?" The angel turned his head to gaze at the duke. "I'm sure you said the same thing about Ligur."

For the briefest of seconds, Hastur's façade faltered and a blank emptiness settled into his dark eyes. Then with a blink it disappeared.

"Ligur's dead," he said matter-of-factly. "I've gotten over it. Which is something that you need to be thinking about as well, angel. Judging from your appearance I'd be hard-pressed to say that you haven't been in mourning."

Aziraphale sniffed and gazed at the floor. "Is it that obvious?"

"Glaringly. Listen, you can't have second thoughts about this sort of thing. What's done is done and you should just learn to accept it and move on."

"I've tried," Aziraphale choked, blinking rapidly. "I really have tried, but I just can't- I can't seem to… I-I feel as if half of me has gone missing."

"That feeling will fade in time, I assure you," said Hastur. "Soon you'll forget all about him, and everything will be as it should again. Aziraphale."

The angel raised his head. His cheeks were shiny and wet, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He looked awful, but more importantly, needy and vulnerable.

Hastur forced a concerned smile onto his face. "Would you like some tea? Or perhaps something a bit stronger?"

The angel hiccupped and sighed gratefully. "Yes, tea would be lovely," he almost laughed, wiping his face on his sleeve.

With a wave of the duke's hand, a fully stocked tray appeared on the coffee table, teapot steaming invitingly. "Is Ceylon all right, or would you prefer a different blend?"

"No, it's just perfect, thank you," Aziraphale sniffed again, leaning over to prepare a cup.

"Don't mention it," Hastur said with a creeping grin, watching with satisfaction as the angel spooned an odd, silvery sugar into his tea and stirred.

"I feel like such a fool," he said shakily, holding the cup and saucer in his hand and sitting on the edge of the chaise. "All this time, I was in so much danger and never even realised it. I can't believe that I didn't see it before. It was so obvious, I'm… I'm positively ashamed of myself."

Aziraphale bowed his head and dejectedly sipped his tea.

"He had you from the Beginning," the duke said helpfully. "Anyone could have fallen for his wiles. He's an expert, that one. Don't blame yourself for being fooled, blame yourself for hanging onto the farce you call a friendship. The sooner you put that behind you, the sooner you can get back to where you belong, in that shining holy light you people love so much."

"And what about you?" Aziraphale asked timidly, and then tipped his teacup back to take a generous gulp.

"Me, oh, don't worry about _me_," Hastur blew a cloud of smoke to the side. "I'm returning to Dis just as soon as I take care of a few miscellaneous tasks. This is all off the record, you know. As soon as I leave Earth we're going to be enemies again."

"I understand," the angel said, pouring his second cup and stirring in heaping spoonfuls of sugar. "In fact, I… I came here partly because I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all that you've done for me, and how thankful I am that you risked so much for the sake of truth." Sip. "I think it was very courageous of you and I owe you my grace because of it."

"You know I went through all this just because I hate Crowley, right?"

"Yes, of course." Sip.

"Good. Because the last thing I need is an angel trying to pin a medal on me for being an hero."

Aziraphale laughed lightly and sounded relieved. Hastur smiled and it was anything but light.

"No, I suppose not," the angel agreed, pouring his third cup and scraping the bottom of the sugar jar. "But all the same, I'm grateful that you were able to put aside our differences to meet me like this." Gulp. The drained teacup was placed on the tray next to the empty sugar jar. "I can't tell you how… glad and fortunate I feel to be… to have been saved in the nick of time before I…"

And suddenly Aziraphale was weeping, shaking his head slowly back and forth and choking out sobs that shook his entire frame. It was alarming. Hastur barely had to pretend to be concerned; he placed his cigar on the ashtray and walked over to sit on the chaise next to the distraught angel.

"I-I came so close to F-Falling and I didn't e-even know it-! It terrifies me," he gasped. "How could I ha-have been so blind?"

"There there, Your Highness," Hastur murmured, placing a thin hand on the trembling shoulder. "At least you are safe now." And then most terrible, evil grin crept onto the duke's lips like a deadly shadow in the night.

Aziraphale hiccupped, turned, and threw an arm about the demon, pressing his face against his chest and the unfamiliar scent of clothes. He was thin, more sharp and sinewy than Crowley, but the body was just as warm. It didn't matter anyway; Aziraphale needed someone to hold.

Hastur, fighting back the instinctive urge to shove the disgusting creature off of him, placed his arms about the angel and endured the sniveling for as long as he could bear, which was not very long at all. Then, very gently, he took him by the shoulders and eased him away.

Aziraphale, eyes dilated and vacantly cloudy, stared at Hastur's face with swollen, trembling lips as fat tears ran down his flushed cheeks one after the other like raindrops on a window pane.

"You don't look well, angel," the duke breathed. "Perhaps you should lie down."

Aziraphale's eyes opened a little wider as he felt the demon begin to push him down onto the cushions, but when he tried to resist it felt as if all the energy had been drained from his body; he could barely even lift his arms.

Soon he was lying flat on the chaise, staring up at Hastur who was hovering over him on his hands and knees, an unholy light glimmering in his dark eyes.

"Stop…" Aziraphale whispered distantly. "What are y-"

"Shh, it's all right," Hastur shushed, caressing the plump cheek with his rough hand. "You're in pain. I can make you feel better."

The hand travelled down the angel's neck and began to unbutton his collar. Aziraphale winced, fought to clear his mind, and failed. He began to groan softly in protest, but found that the more he tried to speak, the more his larynx seemed to constrict. One button after another was undone until none remained, and the invasive hand drew aside the halved cloth to expose a smooth, pale chest and belly.

Aziraphale said in a strangled whisper, "Wh-what did… you…"

"If I were you I wouldn't waste your breath," Hastur advised. "Your voice will be completely gone soon. Couldn't have you pulling a stunt with the heavenly tongue like last time, could I? It's a shame, though—I was really looking forward to hearing you scream."

Fright and confusion caused the angel's eyes to widen. The demon cackled.

"Oh, come now, don't look so surprised! You knew that something was coming, you had those premonitions, remember?" When he spoke next, it was with Aziraphale's voice. "_Crowley, trouble is brewing. I think something terrible is going to happen_."

"You…" Aziraphale rasped. "S-set me up…!"

"Yes, all those months of spying on you and that snake bastard really paid off, otherwise I'd never known you had such a sweet tooth," Hastur said, unable to conceal his infernal delight. "Speaking of which, I hope you enjoyed the tea tonight. The sugar was complimentary of Hell's Kitchen. The special on the menu was paralysis, so it looks as if you and I are going to be spending some quality time together." He ended with a sinister laugh.

Aziraphale looked frightened, regretful and angry all at once. "B-bastard…"

"You trust demons far too much, angel," Hastur muttered, straddling his hips. "You know, trust is like virginity. Once you give it away, there's no getting it back."

He reached inside his blazer and withdrew a gleaming dagger from an unseen pocket. The hilt was black onyx, carved into the shape of a ram skull and trimmed with silver. Two rubies glowed within the sockets for eyes, and the symbols that were etched onto the blade spoke of its hellish origins in the forges of the Deep.

Aziraphale realised all too late that he was in a serious, life-threatening predicament and began to squirm weakly, but whatever Hastur had given him was hindering his ability to summon any of his ethereal powers—he was at the mercy of Hell, and this time the joke was literal.

"Let's see," the duke drawled, running his tongue across the razor sharp steel. "We need to get rid of this pesky corporation of yours. Any ideas, angel? No? All right then, I can be creative. I wonder, how many cuts does it take to get to the ethereal centre of an ethereal being? Let's find out."

He pressed the edge of the knife to the soft flesh of Aziraphale's belly and drew a swift line to his collarbone. The wound began to hiss and steam, for like any a weapon created in Hell, it had the power to eat through a mortal corporation and dissolve it as easily as sulphuric acid. The angel didn't feel the pain until the blood began to ooze, sizzling from his cloven flesh. The incision was shallow enough that it didn't disembowel him, but deep enough that streams of blood began to course down the sides of his body in burning rivulets.

"One..."

Hastur used the tip of the blade to slice a swath across Aziraphale's chest, perpendicular to the first cut, and making the angel's body resemble a living autopsy. Aziraphale opened his mouth to cry out but no sound came forth; he was unable to numb himself to the earthly pain he was experiencing and helpless to stop the slow, methodic butchering.

"Two..."

A slender ribbon of blood followed the wake of the infernal metal as it carved a searing line into the angel's throat, barely missing numerous veins and tendons.

"Three…"

The cold steel was pressed flat against his belly again, gliding gently across his skin and smearing crimson swaths of blood in its wake. The whole time Hastur gazed into Aziraphale's pale, terrified eyes, relishing the panic and pain he saw stirring in their depths, savouring it as if he had desired nothing but this for time uncounted. He brought his free hand around to cradle the warm neck beneath him and hold it steady.

For a moment they stared soul to soul at one another, then with sudden and unexpected swiftness, the dagger was thrust into flesh, deeper and deeper until the hilt kissed the surface of bloody skin and the tip of the blade met the chaise cushion on the other side. Aziraphale's mouth opened wide to gasp wordlessly in shock and agony, and reflexively seized a hold of the demon's shoulders, clenching tightly in a white-knuckled grip.

"I never thought I'd want to penetrate an angel," Hastur murmured, "but I suppose there's a first time for everything."

Aziraphale felt the impossibly cold metal as it pierced through muscle and organ and tissue, and clenched his teeth, bearing it in absolute silence The dagger twisted cruelly, severing the column of nerves that kept his mortal corporation alive—there was a flicker, a shimmer, and the angel's earthly guise melted away.

Wings burst from beneath him and sent Hastur tumbling off the chaise. Aziraphale sobbed a ragged gasp, grabbed the handle of the weapon that was still embedded in his abdomen and wrenched it free, dropping it to the rug. He panted and placed a trembling hand over the bloodstain forming on his white mantle, and attempted to bolster enough strength to pull himself upright. But it hurt far too much—the infernal dagger had wounded his true form.

With a stifled groan of misery, Aziraphale half-fainted half-toppled off of the chaise and beside Hastur, who was already crawling to his knees. Using his last reserve of energy, the angel rolled over onto his side with hopes of crawling away, but a hard hand seized hold of his wing and pulled, ripping pristine white feathers out painfully. He grimaced, and then the duke was on top of him, grinding his wings into the floor and grinning maniacally as he took the round face in his hand.

"_There_ you are," he said with a playful tone. "Surely you weren't thinking of leaving already, were you, Your Highness? That would be quite rude."

The fingertips of a pale, shaking hand brushed against the pommel of the blood-soaked weapon lying on the rug and slowly tried to grasp it.

Hastur brought his face down towards Aziraphale's, who shut his eyes tightly and tried to turn away.

"Aw, what's the matter?" the duke pouted. "Am I not handsome enough for you, dove? Perhaps you'd put out if I looked like Crowley, is that it?"

He began to stroke through Aziraphale's hair, murmuring seductively, "Either way, you belong to me now. You have no power to resist, and he who cannot resist cannot beg for forgiveness when he Falls."

The angel shrieked mutely when his mouth was pried open like a clam and a disgustingly moist, hot tongue slithered its way inside. He gagged and wanted to struggle but his body would not cooperate; Hastur's lips met Aziraphale's in blasphemous, revolting union and there was nothing he could do about it except lie in a state of semi-paralysis and await the worst fifteen minutes of the rest of his life. And strangely enough, all he could think about was-

The drone of a revving engine suddenly sounded, louder and louder until a tremendous explosion rocked the entire warehouse, metal shrieking as the front of a 1926 Bentley came crashing through the side of the building and stopped after a few metres.

The engine belched smoke and fire before dying with a sputter. The windscreen was in shards, all the tyres were flat, the left rear wheel abruptly collapsed in half, both front fenders were gone, one headlamp was missing and the other was dangling by a coil of wires like a popped-out eyeball.

The duke had broken the damning kiss to stare with incredulous shock at the vehicle that had ruined the mood, momentarily distracted.

Aziraphale gasped for breath and gritted his teeth. With a burst of newfound strength, he wrapped his fist around the hilt and buried the bloodied dagger into Hastur's shoulder.

The demon roared in pain and reeled back, clutching his wounded arm; the traces of holy blood on the embedded blade caused his infernal corporation to sting and burn as if on fire. Aziraphale turned himself over and attempted to get on his hands and knees, but his arms were shaking too badly and his stab wound was excruciating. He slumped down onto his stomach and heard the sound of metal being thrown against the floor. Hastur had removed the dagger.

"You little _bitch_," a voice snarled behind him, and then the sharp heel of a boot was digging into his back between his wings, pinning him to the floor. "You're going to live just long enough to regret that."

The angel cringed as more weight was applied to the boot. From the wreckage of the vehicle, a metal door could be hear screeching open, and glass crunching under snakeskin shoes. Then a familiar voice came from the shadows: "I warned you, Hastur, touch him and I'll kill you."

Both the duke and Aziraphale slowly looked up to see none other than Crowley saunter forth from the darkness over broken glass and twisted metal. His suit was in tatters, the jacket missing, his white shirt untucked, ragged and stained, drenched with sweat. Pieces of glittering glass speckled his body like stardust. He was streaked with blood from head to toe, covered with scratches, and his disheveled black hair fell haphazardly into his amber eyes as he stood glaring at Hastur with murderous intent.

"Say your fucking prayers," he uttered.

"Cr… Crowley…" Aziraphale choked under his breath, tears brimming in his eyes with disbelief.

Butchered, crippled ebony wings spread open with all the silent menace of a cobra raising its hooded head to strike, and Hastur looked as if he had seen a ghost. A holy one.

"Y-_you_! You're supposed to be dead! I gave you enough poison to kill a _prince_ of Hell!"

Crowley smiled recklessly and strode forward, limping slightly. "I guess somebody Up There must like me."

Hastur snarled and ground his heel into the angel's back, eliciting an expression of suffering from his quarry. Crowley immediately froze.

"You're not getting him back, Crawly. He's mine now."

"He's had nothing to do with this," came the level reply. "_I_ was the one who killed Ligur. It's me you want."

"You're right," the duke said, removing his foot from Aziraphale and taking a few steps towards the challenging demon. "And after I finish ripping your flesh to pieces, that idiotic angel of yours is going to be the spoils of my victory. And I _will_ spoil him, Crawly, in all the filthy ways you could only dream of."

There was a tearing sound, and a larger, more nicely-groomed pair of wings unfolded from Hastur's back and stretched wide in all their intimidating, unholy terror .

Crowley took a step backwards, eyes darting from Aziraphale to the rapidly-advancing duke of Hell. It soon became painfully clear that he had failed to come up with a suitable back-up plan again, but he wasn't going to run away this time, not after the torture he had endured. Hastur's had it coming to him for years, and now it was Anthony Crowley's turn to show the bastard who-

An uppercut promptly sent Anthony Crowley airborne and crashing against the mangled grill of the Bentley, leaving a monstrous dent in it. Before he could recuperate, Hastur reached down and grabbed him by the throat, hoisting him up and off his feet. Crowley hissed and scrabbled at the hand, and then placed a poorly-aimed but painful kick in Hastur's gut. The duke let out an "oof!", dropped his opponent, and doubled over. Crowley hit the floor with a plan; he turned around grabbed the licence plate strut of the Bentley, twisting it off with a grunt and crawling to his feet. He held the iron rod in both hands and waited until Hastur had raised his head.

Babe Ruth would have been proud. There came a crack as the strut connected with the duke's head and sent him careening several metres to the side, where he toppled to the floor and didn't move.

Panting, Crowley dropped the metal bar with a clang and fell back against the Bentley, wiping the spatters of blood from his face. Movement caught his eye, and he looked across the warehouse floor to see Aziraphale pull himself onto the chaise and close his eyes. The blood from his stab wound had created a large, ugly stain on the front of his uniform.

"Angel," Crowley uttered, and stumbled forward quickly, crossing the room with erratic steps. He fell to his knees beside the chaise and took his friend's cold, bloody hand in his own. One blue eye opened and looked down at him.

"Said I never wanted… to see you again," Aziraphale managed to whisper with much effort. "But I've never… been more glad to see you than now."

Crowley smiled like he didn't care who saw him, and it was the most beautiful thing in all the world. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag filled with white powder.

"I need you to take this," he said.

Any sort of hopefulness that had been on Aziraphale's face promptly dropped off and settled into a dully incredulous expression. "Crowley," he rasped, "I'm wounded, bleeding, and half-paralysed… and you want me to start a cocaine habit?"

"It's not cocaine, Oz, it's medicine."

"How do I know that?"

There came a low groan from where Hastur had fallen, and Crowley pressed the bag into Aziraphale's hand urgently.

"Trust me," he demanded, but his eyes were begging desperately. "Aziraphale, you have to trust me."

The angel looked strangely sad as he turned his head away. "I don't trust demons anymore," he murmured.

"And I don't blame you. Now hurry and take it before Hastur comes round."

"How do I do that?"

"I don't know. You figure it out."

"Where did you get this?"

The demon looked vaguely anxious. "It was given to me by someone. They left a note with instructions to bring it to you." He glanced over his shoulder and then back at Aziraphale. "Look, I don't have time to tell you about it right now. Just trust me and take it. I'm going to try to buy you some time, okay?"

"You're not going to kill him, are you?"

"I don't think I could, not in the shape I'm in," Crowley said grimly. "I'm a few more sucker punches away from unconscious, so take the medicine now. If I get bludgeoned to death out there and Hastur comes back for you, at least you'll have the strength to get the hell out of here."

"Crowley, I…"

On the other side of the warehouse, Hastur was climbing to his feet and growling broken curses.

"Oh shit," Crowley muttered. He stood quickly and tried to move, but the hand he had been holding suddenly clenched and wouldn't let go. He looked down at Aziraphale's face. The angel was smiling.

"…I always knew, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."

One side of Crowley's mouth twitched upward into a half-grin. He gave the hand a squeeze, and then darted away towards the Bentley.

Hastur stood groggily and placed a hand to the side of his head where a noticeably rod-shaped, bloody dent gave him the appearance of a bad Picasso painting. With a guttural grumble, he turned around to see if he could find the slimy bastard who delivered the blow, only to receive a second one in the throat. The duke brayed and stumbled backwards.

Crowley, licence plate strut in hand and swinging it like a baseball bat, flapped his wings and struck again. And again. And again. Sprinkles of blood cascaded into the air, bones crunched, feathers went flying, and still Hastur kept crawling to his feet—he was unstoppable. Crowley somehow knew he would be, and knew also that when he had exhausted himself, Hastur was going to tear him limb from bloody limb and enjoy every moment of it. But Aziraphale… at least Aziraphale would have a chance.

So Crowley gritted his teeth and gave it his all, and the rod fell mercilessly upon the duke of Hell. Because, if he were going to die, he wanted to die protecting all he had ever cared about.

Aziraphale tossed the empty bag aside, swept the residual powder from his face and coughed, trying to get the dryness out of his throat. He winced, fighting the urge to wrap his wings around himself and cocoon for a few days. His eyes were watering, his whole body tingling like it had gone to sleep, but he was beginning to feel stronger, slowly. His stab wound was ceasing to ache, but not quickly enough. He gazed across the warehouse at his associate's gradually waning attacks and knew that he was not going to be healed in time.

With nothing left to do and nowhere else to turn, Aziraphale closed his eyes and began to murmur softly.

Each of Crowley's swings grew weaker as his strength dwindled, until at last the strut was intercepted by Hastur's angry fist and wrenched from Crowley's grasp. Crowley did not retreat or even try to defend himself; he simply stood as straight as he could and faced the ugly wrath of Hell with the uncharacteristic brand courage that only comes from being utterly mad and suicidal.

Hastur's bloody hand seized Crowley's neck and picked him up, hurling him into the front of the Bentley with force enough to crush the entire engine carriage like it had struck a brick wall at 65 mph. The wounded demon had just enough time to let out a soft moan before he was grabbed by the hair and dragged to his feet.

Hastur was truly a terrifying sight; an insane gleam shined in his eyes like knives, his face was twitching and dark with rage, his wings trembling from the sheer might of his unleashed ire.

"_You_," he uttered, releasing the dark hair and grabbing Crowley by the throat, digging his fingers into the vulnerable flesh until it bled, "have not even _begun_ to suffer."

Crowley scratched feebly at the unmovable hand that was crushing the air from his throat, and felt his consciousness begin to darken around the edges.

"I don't understand," hissed Hastur between clenched teeth. "Why fight for an angel who knows your secret? What reason have you got to pretend to be his friend anymore? He'll never trust you again. You're finished!"

"You're… wrong," Crowley gasped. "He trusts me."

"And why would you think _that_?"

"Because he's-" Blood spattered from the demon's mouth. "-my friend. And he knows… that I love him."

Hastur looked almost nauseated, his sharp features twisting into an expression of complete loathing and revulsion. "You're _disgusting_, Crawly, you sniveling worm of a traitor," he sneered, tightening his grip. "Hell will be glad I got rid of you."

Crowley gurgled blood, closed his eyes, and waited to die. He wasn't thinking about his pain anymore, or death, or Hastur. No, only that damned, bloody, stupid, wonderful angel, and all the trouble that being his friend had caused. He realised, then, it had been worth it. If only there were some way to know that Aziraphale would get out of this unharmed and spend the rest of eternity collecting books and Regency silver snuff boxes, and puttering around London while dressed in styles forty years passed, Crowley thought, perhaps dying wasn't so bad after all.

"_Halt!_" shouted an unfamiliar voice, and blinding light shot through the entire warehouse like a laser cannon.

Aziraphale winced. Hastur winced. Even Crowley winced, and his eyes were already closed. The duke dropped his quarry to shield his vision. Aziraphale slid off the chaise and onto the floor, covering his face with his arms. Crowley laid on his back, breathed shallowly, and waited to die.

A heavily-accented voice barked from the light: "_Schwartz! Mathilde! Stellst ihr diesen Herzog unter Arrest!_"

Hastur heard a pair of approaching footsteps, and lowered his arms in time to have a white leather glove crack him one right in his nose, followed by a sharp knee to the groin, followed by a solid punch in the eye. Moaning, he fell to the floor and was suddenly staring at a shiny white pair of knee-high stiletto boots with heels that resembled knitting needles.

Looking up, he saw a beautiful woman attached to them. She was dressed in skintight white PVC and had long black hair. Her lips were the colour of murder, she wore an eye patch over one eye and gratuitous mascara on the other, and she was tapping a riding whip against her thigh.

"Who the hell are _you_?" Hastur demanded.

He was suddenly taken by the collar and face to face with the most frightening human being he had ever laid eyes on°.

(°_And this was **after** he had seen John Waters'_ Pink Flamingos.)

"_Das_," the man-shaped terror muttered, "ist mein seester, you dumm fick."

And all Hastur could say was, "Oh."

Aziraphale lifted his head when the light seemed to fade, and glanced around cautiously. He tried to get on his feet but slipped and fell, jamming his wing into the coffee table painfully.

"Herr Engel," growled a gruff, sub-sonically deep voice from above, and Aziraphale looked up to see the human equivalent of Mount Everest extending a giant, beefy, hairy-knuckled hand toward him. "Komm wis me if you want to liff."

"Oh my," said Herr Engel, but accepted the mighty hand, mostly because he was afraid of what would happen if he declined.

The gargantuan German yanked him up as easily as a sack of kraut and into his big, muscular arms. Aziraphale didn't know what they fed this fellow, but it probably wasn't fig leaves and sushi. He latched his arms around a neck like a tree trunk and held on, hoping that he would have at least a shred of dignity remaining before the end of the night.

Meanwhile, Crowley was beginning to get quite comfortable on the broken glass and metal he was resting on when a shadow fell over him. He blinked open his eyes and stared at the face looking down at him, a familiar, androgynous one that smiled kindly.

"Herr Crowley," it said, and kneeled down by the wounded demon. "You are not badly hurt, yeah?"

"Think I might live," the demon replied as his rescuer helped him to his feet. "I know you, don't I?"

"Yess, you do," said a different voice, and Crowley turned to see another man dressed in similar attire; he had dark hair, green eyes, and wore a black arm band with the symbol of odegra emblazoned onto it.

"I am Kristof," he said. "Das ist Senne-" He gestured to the androgynous young man.

"-Eis-" He pointed to the mountain that was carrying Aziraphale towards them.

"-Schwartz un Mathilde." He nodded to the two holding Hastur to the ground. "We are Chemikal DessChrist, un we hab komm to safe you… un your engel friend."

Crowley felt like laughing, but not out of joy. In fact, going mad sounded like a smashing good idea about now. "You're... you _are_. But you've got infernal power. I thought you were… just a bunch of psychotic metalheads."

"Vee are de Knights of Satan," said Schwartz, looking up from where Hastur lay pinned to the ground by a sharp stiletto, "dark agents of de mortal worlt. Vee hab sworn allegians to der Lord of Darkness, un hab been charged wis protectink His Mashesty's serfants, eefan from zere own."

"We are on your seite, Crowley," Senne, the one with the better English, murmured with a gentle smile. "And your friends are also friends of us."

"Thank industrial-fuck-metal for that," Aziraphale tittered nervously as Eis approached and set him on his feet.

"Goddamn it, Alice." Crowley limped forward and grabbed the angel in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry."

Aziraphale smiled apologetically and placed his arms around the demon's shoulders. "No, Crowley. I'm the one who should be apologising. I allowed my fear to get the better of me and-"

"Don't start. If I hadn't killed Ligur and pissed off Hastur, none of this would have ever happened."

"To tell the truth," said Aziraphale, pulling away, "I'm glad it did."

"Why? You almost _died_. Did you ever stop to think about how I would feel, being responsible for…"

He trailed off, looking fatigued and ill. The angel's face changed when he finally realised it.

"I never thought of it that way," he murmured. "I'm sorry for making you worry."

Crowley waved a hand forlornly and shrugged.

"As mush as I hate to inserrupt deese reuniting," Kristof said, "we hab to take de Duke in für questioning."

"Un dis whole place needs to be e-leemie-nated," Mathilde drawled as her brother hauled Hastur to his feet and began to tie his arms and wings down with an odd-looking rope.

Kristof nodded. "Senne, you und Eis take Herr Crowley und his engel friend to safety. Schwartz, you know what to do. Mathilde, set up de bomb."

"Bomb?" Aziraphale echoed, to which the green-eyed man smiled dangerously.

"We do not call owerselves Chemical DessChrist for nossink, engel. Mathilde ist de engineer of chemistry wis a specialty in hazardous substances. She has de talent for blowing sings up."

Mathilde had produced a silver attaché case and opened it, revealing vials of strangely-coloured liquid packed carefully in a foam holder. She kneeled down, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and removed a tangle of wires attached to a digital detonating device.

"Ah," Aziraphale nodded. "Charming girl."

An enraged Hastur exploded into a conniption, thundering, "What's the meaning of this! You bloody bunch of foreign freaks! Who sent you! Who are you working for? I _demand_ an explanation! Do you even know who I AM? I'm a DUKE, that's who, and I outrank you worthless sacks of mortal meat by-"

Schwartz calmly swung his fist into Hastur's mouth, silencing his squabbling. He shook his hand and cracked his knuckles as the duke reeled.

"Nobody is abofe de law, Herzog. You are unter arrest für crossink de Border wisaus permission, unautorised covert operations, possessions of illegal substances wis criminal intent, destruction of person un property, assaultink an agent-"

Hastur began to rant and argue as he was roughly hauled from the warehouse. Crowley felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see Senne gazing at him intently.

"Come," he said, "we must go now."

"Wait," Crowley said as the two Germans began to usher him and Aziraphale towards a corridor marked EXIT. "What about my car? I can't just… I mean."

"Your automobile es lost, Herr Crowley," Kristof said. "Eefen if it were not saturated in de poison, I doubt it could be repairt, eefen by your powers. I'm sorry."

The demon faltered for a moment, and then Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. "Let it go, my dear. There are more important matters to be concerned with-"

"Fife minutes un countink," Mathilde called.

"-like that one."

Kristof nodded crisply. "Go wis sem, Crowley."

"Aren't you coming with us?"

"Mathilde und I are stayink here to make sure everysing gets taken care of, un sat all traces of de poison are removt. Your apartment has already been destroit, I am afraid. But do not worry. Everysing will work out."

Aziraphale pulled Crowley's shoulder earnestly. He swallowed dryly and gazed his last upon his beloved Bentley, then turned away.

Sliding into the backseat of Chemical DeathChrist's white Hummer was rather awkward with one's wings still out; Aziraphale had climbed in first and tried to help Crowley in without causing him unnecessary pain to his already mangled wings. Blood got smeared all over the nice leather interior and feathers were soon everywhere. It looked as if someone had sacrificed three chickens and a half dozen crows back there before Eis and Senne strapped themselves in up front and roared off into the night.

Lights from windows and street lamps streaked by, and danced across the two shadowy figures shuffling around in an attempt to get settled without possibly breaking, bloodying or bruising anything that hadn't already been broken, bloodied or bruised.

"Ow. Ow. My leg. That hurts," Crowley grunted as Aziraphale tried to coax him into a comfortable position.

"Don't put pressure on it," the angel said. "Here, lie on your side."

"Nnh. Can't bend my wing that way anymore."

"All right, turn over the other way and put it out in the open. Ah, young DeathChrist lad, could you slide your seat up an inch or so? Yes, thank you, that's good. All right now, Crowley, put your wing here and lie this way."

"Ouch."

"There we are. Don't be shy then, I want to have a look at you and make sure you've not broken your head."

Crowley rested his cheek on Aziraphale's thigh and stared at the bloodstained white linen as plump fingers gently began to comb through his messy black hair.

"Are you still bleeding?" the demon murmured.

"I'm all right, don't worry. It's healing up slowly, and I wager I'll be good in a few days."

Aziraphale used the edge of his standard Heaven-issue uniform to wipe the mess from Crowley's face. The angel's voice fell to a low whisper as he spoke in a language only he and his associate knew.

"_Forgive me for doubting you. I was a fool_."

Crowley closed his eyes. "_You were right to have done it. I would be worried otherwise, given what we are_."

"_Enemies_?"

"_No_. _Incompetent_."

Aziraphale laughed softly, and then there was a ground-shaking boom from somewhere far behind the Hummer. The two Germans glanced in the rear view mirror at the small, fiery mushroom cloud pluming over the jagged silhouettes of buildings on the horizon.

"De bitch alvays oferdoes it," Eis grumbled.

"But she es goot at what she does," said Senne cheerfully.

Crowley suddenly grimaced and moaned softly in his throat. Aziraphale thought he was dying.

"What's the matter? Where does it hurt? Do we need to pull over?"

"My… carrrr," the demon moped, trying his damnedest to keep the levees in his eyes from breaking. "My flat. My watch. My houseplants, my compact disc collection, my television-"

He hissed as he drew in a breath and looked as if he were cutting off his own hand instead of giving a verbal list of his bygone possessions.

"-my sofa, my suits, my bed, my liquor, my fucking cellular _phone_."

He began to writhe. Aziraphale tsked.

"There, there, it's all replaceable, Crowley. Don't make such a fuss."

"But the _memories_. They're all I've got left now and it's just not enough. I've lost everything."

"Nonsense. You've still got me."

"Gosh, that's really sweet."

"I know."

"Roll down the window. I'm going to throw up."

"Are you serious?"

"No."

"I ought to smack you."

"Make my day," Crowley scoffed, "cause it can't possibly get any worse than this."

Unfortunately, he said that before Aziraphale leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

"Fine. Make a liar out of me then," the demon sighed.

A warm hand patted his cheek. "Try to get some rest, Crowley."

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to sleep again," he said, but closed his eyes nevertheless.

In no time he was whistling softly through his nose as he soundly slept. He didn't even wake when Senne fed Chemical DeathChrist's newest single into the CD player, nor did he hear Aziraphale's comment of, "Say, that doesn't sound half bad."

* * *

Ed, the sweater-clad Chihuahua-Demon, stood forlornly in the centre of a large, charred, blackened crater where the Vandervent warehouse once sat. Fires still burned on top of the rubble and plumes of smoke made the terrain resemble a scene from _All Quiet on the Western Front_. No sign of Hastur or any other infernal life-form could be seen.

"I must have missed one hell of a Felling," Ed said to himself. "Hey, boss! Boss!"

The imp trotted through the wreckage, calling out for the duke and growing increasingly worried. After an hour of fruitless searching, he sat down on a small mound of broken concrete and wondered what he was going to do. Then the bottom line dawned upon him, and he wondered what he _was_ going to do.

"I've been left behind," Ed said slowly. "The boss must've taken the angel and gone back to Dis without me. He left me here all alone. I'm by myself and there's nobody who's gonna look after me. I'm on my own now."

Silence.

"I'm free! Ya ha ha! I'm freeeee!"

The Chihuahua let out a joyous bark and scampered from the ruins, down the dark street, and towards a brand new life waiting for him in the City of Fog.

* * *

When Crowley awoke, it was dark. He was lying on his stomach, obviously having been purposely placed there so that he wouldn't be putting weight on his wings, which he realised were still out in the open. He propped himself up a little and found he was in a small bed with an antique wooden headboard. It creaked terribly. The pillows were soft and familiar-smelling, as were the blankets, however tacky and outdated the designs.

Crowley grunted softly as he turned over and sat up, sore and aching from head to sole. He appeared to be in a small, sparsely-furnished bedroom, and the only light came from a dim little lamp sitting on a desk across the room. He recognised the porcelain figure of Lewis Carroll's Alice from _Alice in Wonderland,_ standing beside the lamp as if it had been placed there to watch over him. The only window in the room was open slightly, and the cool air that drifted into the pleasantly warm interior alerted Crowley to the fact that it was nighttime, though which night, he hadn't the slightest.

Pushing the covers aside, he discovered that his wounds had been dressed and bandaged with gauze, and some sort of gooey poultice was covering the bare skin where he had sustained minor cuts and bruises. He also found, to his surprising dismay, that he was nude but for the ugliest, most horrifically retro pair of men's briefs he had ever seen in his life.

It was then that he knew: this could only be the work of Florence Nightingangel.

There came the sound of footsteps padding up stairs. A moment later the door to the little bedroom above a certain bookshop squeaked open, and Aziraphale stepped inside with a smile. Crowley was so unbelievably glad to see him that he was willing to overlook the ugly skivvies for now.

"My dear Crowley," the angel said reverently, and sat in the chair that was already pulled up to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"Just wonderful, Alice, perfectly splendid. No, really. How do you _think_ I feel, hmm?"

"Good to see that acidic sarcasm of yours is undamaged. How about those wings?"

"Oh, you mean these two appendages of pure pain sticking out of my back? They're fine, I suppose."

"Hastur did quite a job on you, _liebchen_. Your flight feathers have been hacked clean off, some of them ripped out completely. It's going to be a while before they regrow."

"I never fly anywhere anymore anyway."

"With anyone anywho."

Crowley didn't mean to let loose a laugh, but he hadn't known it was coming. He looked embarrassed and quickly quieted himself, though he couldn't seem to stop smiling or banish the reddish hue from his cheeks. It was positively endearing.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, "I'm afraid I've fallen terribly in love with you."

"Nice. You want me to off myself right here, then?"

"I mean it."

"All the more reason."

"I almost lost you."

"Me too. I don't know how I would ever be able to go on without me."

"You're _such_ a bastard."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I'm glad."

"Ditto. Let's change the subject now, shall we?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Okay."

"Right then."

Silence.

"Tea for two?"

"That'd be nice."

Nine minutes later Aziraphale walked back into the room carrying a tea tray. He sat in the chair beside the bed and placed the tray on Crowley's lap, and the two shared cups of Earl Grey quietly.

"Nice corporation," said the demon after a while.

"Thanks. It's new."

"I can tell. Looks younger than your last one."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Your eyes are still the same."

"Like yours, they always are."

Silence.

"Good tea. Hits the spot."

"I made yours special."

Crowley almost choked and fought the instinctive urge to spew his mouthful out like a leaking high-pressure valve.

Aziraphale smiled. "Don't worry, it's special in a good way. Kristof stopped by with the band and gave me some sort of antitoxin for you. Said it will help you get your strength back twice as fast."

"When was this?"

"Yesterday. You were sleeping, I thought you'd be cross if I woke you."

"Have they left?"

"Yes. Gone back to Amsterdam, or wherever they came from. Herr Schwartz said he successfully turned Hastur in to the infernal authorities. He's going to go on trial."

Crowley looked deeply perturbed. "I hope I don't have to testify. If he doesn't get the death penalty, I'm just going to save him the trouble and kill myself. He'll never stop trying to get at me, you know that, right?"

Aziraphale nodded slowly.

"And now he's going to be after you, too."

"At least we've got another thing in common. We can watch each other's backs."

"We already do that."

"I suppose so. But speaking of which," the angel said, "what happened?"

"What happened when?"

"Everywhen. After you spent two weeks in marijuana. I mean Amsterdam. And everything thereafter."

Crowley finished his tea and began a long, detailed recount of everything that had happened to him, from his blackouts and internal conflicts to his insatiable impulses and erotic encounter with the Bentley (may it forever burn rubber on a brimstone racetrack Down Below, amen). He was a little shocked to discover how much time had passed without his knowledge, but time means nothing or next-to-nothing to an immortal being anyway, so he didn't allow it to bother him for long. The angel listened intently, leaning forward and gazing at his associate with rapt fascination as he told he story.

"-and then, when I was lying there on the floor of my flat, coughing up blood and paralysed in pain, I saw a light."

Aziraphale perked. "What sort of light?"

"The light at the end of the tunnel, you know, the here-comes-death sort of light." He shook his head vaguely, staring ahead with a blank expression. "It kept getting brighter and brighter, and then it was suddenly gone. I woke up and found myself standing in the kitchen and holding a plastic bag of powder in one hand and a note in the other. I put it in my pants pocket, but you took my pants off, angel."

He smiled at Aziraphale like the cat who ate the canary. The angel looked flustered.

"I'll have you know that I cleaned and folded those shredded kecks of yours, so wipe that smirk off your face."

"I can't move my arms all of the sudden. Wipe it off for me?"

Aziraphale half-grinned and stood to fetch the remains of Crowley's pants from where they lay folded on a chest at the foot of the bed.

"Left back pocket," said the demon. "Ought to still be there if you haven't put them through the heavy wash cycle."

"I haven't," insisted Aziraphale, rifling through the pants until a creased, wrinkled piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and opened it carefully. In faded red ink was writ:

_You're not fixed yet but still alive.  
__Did my best, not used to working on  
__Other types. In left hand is medicine.  
__(Forgive the Ziploc.) Aziraphael needs  
__it ASAP. Old Vandervent building, great  
__peril. Hastur will Fell him w/out you. Make haste._

_Also: tell Hastur to take back what  
__he said about calling me a poncy tosser._

Aziraphale's eyes widened and he lost his breath for a few moments.

"Hey. Oz. You there?"

The angel rose to his feet and sat down beside Crowley, whose eyes narrowed at him.

"You don't look so good, angel. Something wrong? Any idea who wrote this letter, 'cause I sure want to thank the person who did. I mean, they saved my life really, and yours. Hello? Earth to Aziraphale."

"No," said Aziraphale softly, then folded the note and looked up with a small smile. "I haven't the slightest."

"Great," Crowley huffed. "Makes me sick, some Good Samaritan wandering around out there, helping demons. Say, do you think it could have been the DeathChrist psychos? They seem like the type."

"When they were here I asked them how they received their orders to save us, and from whom."

"_And?_"

The angel shook his head. "All they said was that they had received an anonymous tip that something illegal was going down in London, and to come prepared for confrontation. Everything else is classified, so they said."

"That's bureaucracy for you," Crowley muttered, leaning back. "Bloody business- ow!"

"You can't lie on your wings yet, dearest, they've not healed yet. Come along now, sit up. I'm still sore from my adventures as an angelic pincushion and I know you're not completely crippled, so help me out a little, please, if you wouldn't mind. Thank you."

"Nnh. I need to go get a new corporation, Aziraphale."

"You," he said as he gathered the empty teacups, "are not going anywhere until you can move without moaning, now just relax and I'll prepare some more tea."

"You know, moaning isn't always something that has to be pain-related," Crowley said.

"In a few moments it most certainly shall, unless you remove that hand from my knee."

"Gads, you're a frigid one, aren't you. A regular iceberg. I mean, here I am, trapped in your sodding bookshop like a prisoner, bedridden after saving the day, wearing the ugliest knickers this side of the eighteenth century while being looked after by Nurse Ratchet herself. And you _still_ haven't thanked me for saving your life."

Aziraphale stood and leaned down until he was face to face with Crowley.

"I plan on thanking you for that later," he said in a low whisper, "but right now you're in no condition to accept my gratitude."

Crowley gulped. "I see."

"There's a dear chap." Aziraphale patted his cheek. "Now then, more special tea for Herr Crowley?"

"I was thinking something a little stronger… like a bottle of Bordeaux, perhaps?"

* * *

Count Hastur stood out by the garbage-clogged kerb in Dis and gazed up at the Duke Building with the newly vacated corner office on the thirteenth floor, holding the contents of his desk in a cardboard box as he gnashed his teeth in irreparable rage.

"I swear on my life, I'll get you for this one day, Crawly," he uttered. "And your little angel, too!"

_**SO Not The End**_


End file.
